THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


See  p.  399 
"HE    STOOD    STILL,    GAZING    AT    THEM    AS    THEY    PRAYED" 


THE     CALL 

OF   THE 

BLOOD 


ROBERT  HICHENS 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
ORSON    LOWELL 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  6-  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

MCMVI 


Copyright,  1905,  1906,  by  HARPBR  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Published  October,  1906. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  HE  STOOD  STILL,  GAZING  AT  THEM  AS  THEY  PRAYED  "          Frontispiece 

"SPACE  SEEMS  TO  LIBERATE  THE  SOUL,'  SHE  SAID"    Facing  p.    38 

'HE    ...    LOOKED   DOWN   AT   THE   LIGHT   SHINING   IN 

THE    HOUSE    OF   THE    SIRENS " "  78 

'HER  HEAD  WAS  THROWN  BACK,  AS  IF  SHE  WERE 

DRINKING  IN  THE  BREEZE" I2O 

"l  AM  CONTENT  WITHOUT  ANYTHING,  SIGNORINO,' 

SHE  SAID" "  280 

'HE  KEPT  HIS  HAND  ON  HERS  AND  HELD  IT  ON  THE 

WARM  GROUND" "  302 

"BUT  i  SOON  LEARNED  TO  DELIGHT  IN — IN  MY 

SICILIAN,'  SHE  SAID,  TENDERLY" 366 

'SHE  COULD  SEE  VAGUELY  THE  SHORE  BY  THE 
CAVES  WHERE  THE  FISHERMEN  HAD  SLEPT  IN 
THE  DAWN" "  420 


2042035 


THE 
CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 


THE 
CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 


ON  a  dreary  afternoon  of  November,  when  London 
was  closely  wrapped  in  a  yellow  fog,  Hermione  Lester  was 
sitting  by  the  fire  in  her  house  in  Eaton  Place  reading 
a  bundle  of  letters,  which  she  had  just  taken  out  of  her 
writing-table  drawer.  She  was  expecting  a  visit  from 
the  writer  of  the  letters,  Emile  Artois,  who  had  wired  to 
her  on  the  previous  day  that  he  was  coming  over  from 
Paris  by  the  night  train  and  boat. 

Miss  Lester  was  a  woman  of  thirty-four,  five  feet  ten 
in  height,  flat,  thin,  but  strongly  built,  with  a  large  waist 
and  limbs  which,  though  vigorous,  were  rather  unwieldy. 
Her  face  was  plain:  rather  square  and  harsh  in  outline, 
with  blunt,  almost  coarse  features,  but  a  good  com- 
plexion, clear  and  healthy,  and  large,  interesting,  and 
slightly  prominent  brown  eyes,  full  of  kindness,  sym- 
pathy, and  brightness,  full,  too,  of  eager  intelligence  and 
of  energy,  eyes  of  a  woman  who  was  intensely  alive  both 
in  body  and  in  mind.  The  look  of  swiftness,  a  look  most 
attractive  in  either  human  being  or  in  animal,  was  absent 
from  her  body  but  was  present  in  her  eyes,  which  showed 
forth  the  spirit  in  her  with  a  glorious  frankness  and  a 
keen  intensity.  Nevertheless,  despite  these  eyes  and 
her  thickly  growing,  warm  -  colored,  and  wavy  brown 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

hair,  she  was  a  plain,  almost  an  ugly  woman,  whose 
attractive  force  issued  from  within,  inviting  inquiry  and 
advance,  as  the  flame  of  a  fire  does,  playing  on  the 
blurred  glass  of  a  window  with  many  flaws  in  it. 

Hermione  was,  in  fact,  found  very  attractive  by  a  great 
many  people  of  varying  temperaments  and  abilities,  who 
were  captured  by  her  spirit  and  by  her  intellect,  the  soul 
of  the  woman  and  the  brains,  and  who,  while  seeing 
clearly  and  acknowledging  frankly  the  plainness  of  her 
face  and  the  almost  masculine  ruggedness  of  her  form, 
said,  with  a  good  deal  of  truth,  that  "somehow  they 
didn't  seem  to  matter  in  Hermione."  Whether  Her- 
mione herself  was  of  this  opinion  not  many  knew.  Her 
general  popularity,  perhaps,  made  the  world  incurious 
about  the  subject. 

The  room  in  which JHermione  was  reading  the  letters  of 
Artois  was  small  and  crammed  with  books.  There  were 
books  in  cases  uncovered  by  glass  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
some  in  beautiful  bindings,  but  many  in  tattered  paper 
covers,  books  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  very  much 
read.  On  several  tables,  among  photographs  and  vases 
of  flowers,  were  more  books  and  many  magazines,  both 
English  and  foreign.  A  large  writing-table  was  littered 
with  notes  and  letters.  An  upright  grand-piano  stood 
open,  with  a  quantity  of  music  upon  it.  On  the  thick 
Persian  carpet  before  the  fire  was  stretched  a  very  large 
St.  Bernard  dog,  with  his  muzzle  resting  on  his  paws  and 
his  eyes  blinking  drowsily  in  serene  contentment. 

As  Hermione  read  the  letters  one  by  one  her  face  show- 
ed a  panorama  of  expressions,  almost  laughably  indica- 
tive of  her  swiftly  passing  thoughts.  Sometimes  she 
smiled.  Once  or  twice  she  laughed  aloud,  startling  the 
dog,  who  lifted  his  massive  head  and  gazed  at  her  with 
profound  inquiry.  Then  she  shook  her  head,  looked 
grave,  even  sad,  or  earnest  and  full  of  sympathy,  which 
seemed  longing  to  express  itself  in  a  torrent  of  comfort- 
ing words.  Presently  she  put  the  letters  together,  tied 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

them  up  carelessly  with  a  piece  of  twine,  and  put  them 
back  into  the  drawer  from  which  she  had  taken  them. 
Just  as  she  had  finished  doing  this  the  door  of  the  room, 
which  was  ajar,  was  pushed  softly  open,  and  a  dark- 
eyed,  Eastern-looking  boy  dressed  in  livery  appeared. 

"What  is  it,  Selim?"  asked  Hermione,  in  French. 

"Monsieur  Artois,  madame." 

"Emile!"  cried  Hermione,  getting  up  out  of  her  chair 
with  a  sort  of  eager  slowness.  "Where  is  he?" 

"He  is  here!"  said  a  loud  voice,  also  speaking  French. 

Selim  stood  gracefully  aside,  and  a  big  man  stepped 
into  the  room  and  took  the  two  hands  which  Hermione 
stretched  out  in  his. 

"Don't  let  any  one  else  in,  Selim,"  said  Hermione  to 
the  boy.  '  A^ 

"Especially  the  little  /llLily,'j4  said  Artois,  mena- 
cingly, ^f  > 

"Hush,  Emile!  Not  even  Miss  Townly  if  she  calls, 
Selim." 

Selim  smiled  with  grave  intelligence  at  the  big  man, 
said,  "I  understand,  madame,"  and  glided  out. 

"Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  have  you — you,  pilgrim 
of  the  Orient — insulted  the  East  by  putting  Selim  into 
a  coat  with  buttons  and  cloth  trousers?"  exclaimed 
Artois,  still  holding  Hermione's  hands. 

"It's  an  outrage,  I  know.  But  I  had  to.  He  was 
stared  at  and  followed,  and  he  actually  minded  it.  As 
soon  as  I  found  out  that,  I  trampled  on  all  my  artis- 
tic prejudices,  and  behold  him — horrible  but  happy! 
Thank  you  for  coming — thank  you." 

She  let  his  hands  go,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  at  each  other  in  the  firelight. 

Artois  was  a  tall  man  of  about  forty-three,  with  large, 
almost  Herculean  limbs,  a  handsome  face,  with  regular 
but  rather  heavy  features,  and  very  big  gray  eyes,  that 
always  looked  penetrating  and  often  melancholy.  His 
forehead  was  noble  and  markedly  intellectual,  and  his 
3 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

well-shaped,  massive  head  was  covered  with  thick,  short, 
mouse-colored  hair.  He  wore  a  mustache  and  a  mag- 
nificent beard.  His  barber,  who  was  partly  responsible 
for  the  latter,  always  said  of  it  that  it  was  the  "most 
beautiful  fan-shaped  beard  in  Paris,"  and  regarded  it 
with  a  pride  which  was  probably  shared  by  its  owner. 
His  hands  and  feet  were  good,  capable-looking,  but  not 
clumsy,  and  his  whole  appearance  gave  an  impression 
of  power,  both  physical  and  intellectual,  and  of  in- 
domitable will  combined  with  subtlety.  He  was  well 
dressed,  fashionably  not  artistically,  yet  he  suggested 
an  artist,  not  necessarily  a  painter.  As  he  looked  at 
Hermione  the  smile  which  had  played  about  his  lips 
when  he  entered  the  little  room  died  away. 

"  I've  come  to  hear  about  it  all,"  he  said,  in  his  reso- 
nant voice — a  voice  which,  matched  his  appearance.  "  Do 
you  know" — and  here  his  accent  was  grave,  almost  re- 
proachful— "that  in  all  your  letters  to  me — I  looked 
them  over  before  I  left  Paris — there  is  no  allusion,  not 
one,  to  this  Monsieur  Delarey." 

"Why  should  there  be?"  she  answered. 

She  sat  down,  but  Artois  continued  to  stand. 

"We  seldom  wrote  of  persons,  I  think.  We  wrote 
of  events,  ideas,  of  work,  of  conditions  of  life;  of  man, 
woman,  child  —  yes  —  but  not  often  of  special  men, 
women,  children.  I  am  almost  sure — in  fact,  quite 
sure,  for  I've  just  been  reading  them  —  that  in  your 
letters  to  me  there  is  very  little  discussion  of  our  mu- 
tual friends,  less  of  friends  who  weren't  common  to  us 
both." 

As  she  spoke  she  stretched  out  a  long,  thin  arm,  and 
pulled  open  the  drawer  into  which  she  had  put  the 
bundle  tied  with  twine. 

"They're  all  in  here." 

"You  don't  lock  that  drawer?" 

"Never." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  severity. 
4 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  I  lock  the  door  of  the  room,  or,  rather,  it  locks  itself. 
You  haven't  noticed  it?" 

"No." 

"It's  the  same  as  the  outer  door  of  a  flat.  I  have  a 
latch-key  to  it." 

He  said  nothing,  but  smiled.  All  the  sudden  grim- 
ness  had  gone  out  of  his  face. 

Hermione  withdrew  her  hand  from  the  drawer  hold- 
ing the  letters. 

"Here  they  are!" 

"  My  complaints,  my  egoism,  my  ambitions,  my  views — 
Mon  Dieu !  Hermione,  what  a  good  friend  you've  been !' ' 

"And  some  people  say  you're  not  modest!" 

"I — modest!  What  is  modesty?  I  know  my  own 
value  as  compared  with  that  of  others,  and  that  knowl- 
edge to  others  must  often  seem  conceit." 

She  began  to  untie  the  packet,  but  he  stretched  out 
his  hand  and  stopped  her. 

"No,  I  didn't  come  from  Paris  to  read  my  letters,  or 
even  to  hear  you  read  them!  I  came  to  hear  about  this 
Monsieur  Delarey." 

Selim  stole  in  with  tea  and  stole  out  silently,  shutting 
the  door  this  time.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  Artois  drew 
a  case  from  his  pocket,  took  out  of  it  a  pipe,  filled  it, 
and  lit  it.  Meanwhile,  Hermione  poured  out  tea,  and, 
putting  three  lumps  of  sugar  into  one  of  the  cups,  hand- 
ed it  to  Artois. 

"I  haven't  come  to  protest.  You  know  we  both 
worship  individual  freedom.  How  often  in  those  let- 
ters haven't  we  written  it — ou^  respect  of  the  right  of 
the  individual  to  act  for  him  or  herself,  without  the  in- 
terference of  outsiders?  No,  I've  come  to  hear  about 
it  all,  to  hear  how  you  managed  to  get  into  the  pleas- 
ant state  of  mania." 

On  the  last  words  his  deep  voice  sounded  sarcastic, 
almost  patronizing.  Hermione  fired  up  at  once. 

"None  of  that  from  you,  Emile!"  she  exclaimed. 
5 


THE   CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

Artois  stirred  his  tea  rather  more  than  was  necessary, 
but  did  not  begin  to  drink  it. 

"You  mustn't  look  down  on  me  from  a  height,"  she 
continued.  "I  won't  have  it.  We're  all  on  a  level 
when  we're  doing  certain  things,  when  we're  truly  liv- 
ing, simply,  frankly,  following  our  fates,  and  when  we're 
dying.  You  feel  that.  Drop  the  analyst,  dear  Emile, 
drop  the  professional  point  of  view.  I  see  right  through 
it  into  your  warm  old  heart.  I  never  was  afraid  of 
you,  although  I  place  you  high,  higher  than  your  critics, 
higher  than  your  public,  higher  than  you  place  yourself. 
Every  woman  ought  to  be  able  to  love,  and  every  man. 
There's  nothing  at  all  absurd  in  the  fact,  though  there 
may  be  infinite  absurdities  in  the  manifestation  of  it. 
But  those  you  haven't  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
in  me,  so  you've  nothing  yet  to  laugh  at  or  label.  Now 
drink  your  tea." 

He  laughed  a  loud,  roaring  laugh,  drank  some  of  his 
tea,  puffed  out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  said: 

"Whom  will  you  ever  respect?" 

"Every  one  who  is  sincere — myself  included." 

"Be  sincere  with  me  now,  and  I'll  go  back  to  Paris 
to-morrow  like  a  shorn  lamb.  Be  sincere  about  Mon- 
sieur Delarey." 

Hermione  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment  with  the  bun- 
dle of  letters  in  her  lap.  At  last  she  said: 

"It's  difficult  sometimes  to  tell  the  truth  about  a 
feeling,  isn't  it?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  yourself  what  the  truth  is." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  do.  The  history  of  the  growth 
of  a  feeling  may  be  almost  more  complicated  than  the 
history  of  France." 

Artois,  who  was  a  novelist,  nodded  his  head  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  knew  all  about  that. 

"Maurice — Maurice  Delarey  has  cared  for  me,  in  that 
way,  for  a  long  time.  I  was  very  much  surprised  when 
I  first  found  it  out." 

6 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven?" 

"Well,  he's  wonderfully  good-looking." 

"No  explanation  of  your  astonishment." 

"Isn't  it?  I  think,  though,  it  was  that  fact  which 
astonished  me,  the  fact  of  a  very  handsome  man  loving 
me." 

"Now,  what's  your  theory?" 

He  bent  down  his  head  a  little  towards  her,  and 
fixed  his  great,  gray  eyes  on  her  face. 

"Theory!  Look  here,  Emile,  I  dare  say  it's  difficult 
for  a  man  like  you,  genius,  insight,  and  all,  thoroughly 
to  understand  how  an  ugly  woman  regards  beauty,  an 
ugly  woman  like  me,  who's  got  intellect  and  passion 
and  intense  feeling  for  form,  color,  every  manifestation 
of  beauty.  When  I  look  at  beauty  I  feel  rather  like  a 
dirty  little  beggar  staring  at  an  angel.  My  intellect 
doesn't  seem  to  help  me  at  all.  In  me,  perhaps,  the 
sensation  arises  from  an  inward  conviction  that  hu- 
manity was  meant  originally  to  be  beautiful,  and  that 
the  ugly  ones  among  us  are — well,  like  sins  among 
virtues.  You  remember  that  book  of  yours  which  was 
and  deserved  to  be  your  one  artistic  failure,  because  you 
hadn't  put  yourself  really  into  it?" 

Artois  made  a  wry  face. 

"Eventually  you  paid  a  lot  of  money  to  prevent  it 
from  being  published  any  more.  You  withdrew  it  from 
circulation.  I  sometimes  feel  that  we  ugly  ones  ought 
to  be  withdrawn  from  circulation.  It's  silly,  perhaps, 
and  I  hope  I  never  show  it,  but  there  the  feeling  is.  So 
when  the  handsomest  man  I  had  ever  seen  loved  me,  I 
was  simply  amazed.  It  seemed  to  me  ridiculous  and 
impossible.  And  then,  when  I  was  convinced  it  was 
possible,  very  wonderful,  and,  I  confess  it  to  you,  very- 
splendid.  It  seemed  to  help  to  reconcile  me  with  my- 
self in  a  way  in  which  I  had  never  been  reconciled  be- 
fore." 

"And  that  was  the  beginning?" 
7 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  dare  say.  There  were  other  things,  too.  Maurice 
Delarey  isn't  at  all  stupid,  but  he's  not  nearly  so  in- 
telligent as  I  am." 

"That  doesn't  surprise  me." 

"The  fact  of  this  physical  perfection  being  humble 
with  me,  looking  up  to  me,  seemed  to  mean  a  great  deal. 
I  think  Maurice  feels  about  intellect  rather  as  I  do  about 
beauty.  He  made  me  understand  that  he  must.  And 
that  seemed  to  open  my  heart  to  him  in  an  extraor- 
dinary way.  Can  you  understand?" 

"Yes.     Give  me  some  more  tea,  please." 

He  held  out  his  cup.  She  filled  it,  talking  while  she 
did  so.  She  had  become  absorbed  in  what  she  was  say- 
ing, and  spoke  without  any  self-consciousness. 

"  I  knew  mv  gift,  such  as  it  is,  the  gift  of  brains,  could 
do  something  for  him,  though  his  gift  of  beauty  could 
do  nothing  for  me — in  the  way  of  development.  And 
that,  too,  seemed  to  lead  me  a  step  towards  him.  Final- 
ly— well,  one  day  I  knew  I  wanted  to  marry  him.  And 
so,  Emile,  I'm  going  to  marry  him.  Here!" 

She  held  out  to  him  his  cup  full  of  tea. 

"There's  no  sugar,"  he  said. 

"Oh — the  first  time  I've  forgotten." 

"Yes." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  made  her  look  up  at  him  quickly 
and  exclaim: 

"No,  it  won't  make  any  difference!" 

"But  it  has.  You've  forgotten  for  the  first  time. 
Cursed  be  the  egotism  of  man." 

He  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
tea-table. 

"  It  ought  to  make  a  difference.  Maurice  Delarey,  if 
he  is  a  man  —  and  if  you  are  going  to  marry  him  he 
must  be — will  not  allow  you  to  be  the  Egeria  of  a  fellow 
who  has  shocked  even  Paris  by  telling  it  the  naked 
truth." 

"Yes,  he  will.  I  shall  drop  no  friendship  for  him, 
8 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

and  he  knows  it.  There  is  not  one  that  is  not  honest 
and  innocent.  Thank  God  I  can  say  that.  If  you  care 
for  it,  Emile,  we  can  both  add  to  the  size  of  the  letter 
bundles." 

He  looked  at  her  meditatively,  even  rather  sadly. 

"You  are  capable  of  everything  in  the  way  of  friend- 
ship, I  believe,"  he  said.  "Even  of  making  the  bundle 
bigger  with  a  husband's  consent.  A  husband's — I  sup- 
pose the  little  Townly's  upset?  But  she  always  is." 

"  When  you're  there.  You  don't  know  Evelyn.  You 
never  will.  She's  at  her  worst  with  you  because  you 
terrify  her.  Your  talent  frightens  her,  but  your  ap- 
pearance frightens  her  even  more." 

"I  am  as  God  made  me." 

"With  the  help  of  the  barber.  It's  your  beard  as 
much  as  anything  else." 

"  What  does  she  say  of  this  affair  ?  What  do  all  your 
innumerable  adorers  say?" 

"What  should  they  say?  Why  should  anybody  be 
surprised?  It's  surely  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  for  a  woman,  even  a  very  plain  woman,  to  marry. 
I  have  always  heard  that  marriage  is  woman's  destiny, 
and  though  I  don't  altogether  believe  that,  still  I  see 
no  special  reason  why  I  should  never  marry  if  I  wish  to. 
And  I  do  wish  to." 

"That's  what  will  surprise  the  little  Townly  and  the 
gaping  crowd." 

"I  shall  begin  to  think  I've  seemed  unwomanly  all 
these  years." 

"No.  You're  an  extraordinary  woman  who  aston- 
ishes because  she  is  going  to  do  a  very  important  thing 
that  is  very  ordinary." 

"It  doesn't  seem  at  all  ordinary  to  me." 

Emile  Artois  began  to  stroke  his  beard.     He  was  de- 
termined not  to  feel  jealous.     He  had  never  wished  to 
marry  Hermione,  and  did  not  wish  to  marry  her  now,  but 
he  had  come  over  from  Paris  secretly  a  man  of  wrath. 
9 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"You  needn't  tell  me  that,"  he  said.  "Of  course  it 
is  the  great  event  to  you.  Otherwise  you  would  never 
have  thought  of  doing  it." 

"Exactly.     Are  you  astonished?" 

"I  suppose  I  am.     Yes,  I  am." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  were  far  too  clever  to 
be  so." 

"Exactly  what  I  should  have  thought.  But  what 
living  man  is  too  clever  to  be  an  idiot?  I  never  met 
the  gentleman  and  never  hope  to." 

"You  looked  upon  me  as  the  eternal  spinster?" 

"I  looked  upon  you  as  Hermione  Lester,  a  great 
creature,  an  extraordinary  creature,  free  from  the  prej- 
udices of  your  sex  and  from  its  pettinesses,  unconven- 
tional, big  brained,  generous  hearted,  free  as  the  wind 
in  a  world  of  monkey  slaves,  careless  of  all  opinion  save 
your  own,  but  humbly  obedient  to  the  truth  that  is  in 
you,  human  as  very  few  human  beings  are,  one  who 
ought  to  have  been  an  artist  but  who  apparently  pre- 
ferred to  be  simply  a  woman." 

Hermoine  laughed,  winking  away  two  tears. 

"Well,  Emile  dear,  I'm  being  very  simply  a  woman 
now,  I  assure  you." 

"And  why  should  I  be  surprised?  You're  right. 
What  is  it  makes  me  surprised?" 

He  sat  considering. 

"Perhaps  it  is  that  you  are  so  unusual,  so  individual, 
that  my  imagination  refuses  to  project  the  man  on 
whom  your  choice  could  fall.  I  project  the  snuffy 
professor —  Impossible!  I  project  the  Greek  god — 
again  my  mind  cries,  'Impossible!'  Yet,  behold,  it  if 
in  very  truth  the  Greek  god,  the  ideal  of  the  ordinary 
woman." 

"You  know  nothing  about  it.  You're  shooting  ar- 
rows into  the  air." 

"Tell  me  more  then.  Hold  up  a  torch  in  the  dark- 
ness." 

10 


THE    CALL  .OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  can't.  You  pretend  to  know  a  woman,  and  you 
ask  her  coldly  to  explain  to  you  the  attraction  of  the 
man  she  loves,  to  dissect  it.  I  won't  try  to." 

"But,"  he  said,  with  now  a  sort  of  joking  persistence, 
which  was  only  a  mask  for  an  almost  irritable  curios- 
ity, "I  want  to  know." 

"And  you  shall.  Maurice  and  I  are  dining  to-night 
at  Caminiti's  in  Peathill  Street,  just  off  Regent  Street. 
Come  and  meet  us  there,  and  we'll  all  three  spend  the 
evening  together.  Half -past  eight,  of  course  no  even- 
ing dress,  and  the  most  delicious  Turkish  coffee  in  Lon- 
don." 

"Does  Monsieur  Delarey  like  Turkish  coffee?" 

"Loves  it." 

"Intelligently?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Does  he  love  it  inherently,  or  because  you  do?" 

"You  can  find  that  out  to-night." 

"I  shall  come." 

He  got  up,  put  his  pipe  into  a  case,  and  the  case  into 
his  pocket,  and  said: 

"Hermione,  if  the  analyst  may  have  a  word — " 

"Yes — now." 

"Don't  let  Monsieur  Delarey,  whatever  his  character, 
see  now,  or  in  the  future,  the  dirty  little  beggar  staring 
at  the  angel.  I  use  your  own  preposterously  inflated 
phrase.  Men  can't  stand  certain  things  and  remain 
true  to  the  good  in  their  characters.  Humble  adoration 
from  a  woman  like  you  would  be  destructive  of  blessed 
virtues  in  Antinous.  Think  well  of  yourself,  my  friend, 
think  well  of  your  sphinxlike  eyes.  Haven't  they 
beauty?  Doesn't  intellect  shoot  its  fires  from  them? 
Mon  Dieu!  Don't  let  me  see  any  prostration  to-night, 
or  I  shall  put  three  grains  of  something  I  know  —  I  al- 
ways call  it  Turkish  delight  —  into  the  Turkish  coffee 
of  Monsieur  Delarey,  and  send  him  to  sleep  with  his 
fathers." 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Hermione  got  up  and  held  out  her  hands  to  him  im- 
pulsively. 

"Bless  you,  Emile!"  she  said.     "You're  a — " 

There  was  a  gentle  tap  on  the  door.  Hermione  went 
to  it  and  opened  it.  Selim  stood  outside  with  a  pencil 
note  on  a  salver. 

"Ha!     The  little  Townly  has  been!"  said  Artois. 

"Yes,  it's  from  her.  You  told  her,  Selim,  that  I  was 
with  Monsieur  Artois?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Did  she  say  anything?" 

"She  said,  'Very  well,'  madame,  and  then  she  wrote 
this.  Then  she  said  again,  'Very  well,'  and  then  she 
went  away." 

"All  right,  Selim." 

Selim  departed. 

' '  Delicious ! ' '  said  Artois .  "I  can  hear  her  speaking  and 
see  her  drifting  away  consumed  by  jealousy,  in  the  fog." 

"Hush,  Emile,  don't  be  so  malicious." 

"P'f!     I  must  be  to-day,  for  I  too  am — " 

"Nonsense.     Be  good  this  evening,  be  very  good." 

"I  will  try." 

He  kissed  her  hand,  bending  his  great  form  down  with 
a  slightly  burlesque  air,  and  strode  out  without  another 
word.  Hermione  sat  down  to  read  Miss  Townly 's  note: 

"  Dearest,  never  mind.  I  know  that  I  must  now  accustom 
myself  to  be  nothing  in  your  life.  It  is  difficult  at  first,  but 
what  is  existence  but  a  struggle?  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to 
have  another  of  my  neuralgic  seizures.  I  wonder  what  it  all 
means  ? — Your,  EVELYN." 

Hermione  laid  the  note  down,  with  a  sigh  and  a  little 
laugh. 

"I  wonder  what  it  all  means?  Poor,  dear  Evelyn! 
Thank  God,  it  sometimes  means — "  She  did  not  finish 
the  sentence,  but  knelt  down  on  the  carpet  and  took 
the  St.  Bernard's  great  head  in  her  hands. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"You  don't  bother,  do  you,  old  boy,  as  long  as  you 
have  your  bone.  Ah,  I'm  a  selfish  wretch.  But  I  am 
going  to  have  my  bone,  and  I  can't  help  feeling  happy — 
gloriously,  supremely  happy!" 

And  she  kissed  the  dog's  cold  nose  and  repeated: 

"Supremely — supremely  happy!" 


II 

Miss  TOWNLY,  gracefully  turned  away  from  Hermi- 
one's  door  by  Selim,  did,  as  Artois  had  surmised,  drift 
away  in  the  fog  to  the  house  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Creswick, 
who  lived  in  Sloane  Street.  She  felt  she  must  unburden 
herself  to  somebody,  and  Mrs.  Creswick's  tea,  a  blend  of 
China  tea  with  another  whose  origin  was  a  closely  guard- 
ed secret,  was  the  most  delicious  in  London.  There  are 
merciful  dispensations  of  Providence  even  for  Miss 
Townlys,  and  Mrs.  Creswick  was  at  home  with  a  blazing 
fire.  When  she  saw  Miss  Townly  coming  sideways  into 
the  room  with  a  slightly  drooping  head,  she  said,  briskly: 

"Comfort  me  with  crumpets,  for  I  am  sick  with  love! 
Cheer  up,  my  dear  Evelyn.  Fogs  will  pass  and  even 
neuralgia  has  its  limits.  I  don't  ask  you  what  is  the 
matter,  because  I  know  perfectly  well." 

Miss  Townly  went  into  a  very  large  arm-chair  and 
waveringly  selected  a  crumpet. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  she  murmured,  looking 
obliquely  at  her  friend's  parquet. 

"Ask  the  baker,  No.  5  Allitch  Street.  I  always  get 
them  from  there.  And  he's  a  remarkably  well-informed 
man." 

"No,  I  mean  life  with  its  extraordinary  changes, 
things  you  never  expected,  never  dreamed  of — and  all 
coming  so  abruptly.  I  don't  think  I'm  a  stupid  person, 
but  I  certainly  never  looked  for  this." 

"For  what?" 

"  This  most  extraordinary  engagement  of  Hermione's." 

Mrs.  Creswick,  who  was  a  short  woman  who  looked 
M 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

tall,  with  a  briskly  conceited  but  not  unkind  manner, 
and  a  decisive  and  very  English  nose,  rejoined: 

"I  don't  know  why  we  should  call  it  extraordinary. 
Everybody  gets  engaged  at  some  time  or  other,  and 
Hermione's  a  woman  like  the  rest  of  us  and  subject  to 
aberration.  But  I  confess  I  never  thought  she  would 
marry  Maurice  Delarey.  He  never  seemed  to  mean  more 
to  her  than  any  one  else,  so  far  as  I  could  see." 

"Everybody  seems  to  mean  so  much  to  Hermione 
that  it  makes  things  difficult  to  outsiders,"  replied  Miss 
Townly,  plaintively.  "She  is  so  wide-minded  and  has 
so  many  interests  that  she  dwarfs  everybody  else.  I 
always  feel  quite  squeezed  when  I  compare  my  poor 
little  life  with  hers.  But  then  she  has  such  physical 
endurance.  She  breaks  the  ice,  you  know,  in  her  bath 
in  the  winter — of  course  I  mean  when  there  is  ice." 

"It  isn't  only  in  her  bath  that  she  breaks  the  ice," 
said  Mrs.  Creswick. 

"I  perfectly  understand,"  Miss  Townly  said,  vaguely. 
"You  mean — yes,  you're  right.  Well,  I  prefer  my  bath 
warmed  for  me,  but  my  circulation  was  never  of  the 
best." 

"Hermione  is  extraordinary,"  said  Mrs.  Creswick, 
trying  to  look  at  her  profile  in  the  glass  and  making  her 
face  as  Roman  as  she  could,  "I  know  all  London,  but  I 
never  met  another  Hermiohe.  She  can  do  things  that 
other  women  can't  dream  of  even,  and  nobody  minds." 

"Well,  now  she  going  to  do  a  thing  we  all  dream  of 
and  a  great  many  of  us  do.  Will  it  answer?  He's  ten 
years  younger  than  she  is.  Can  it  answer?" 

"One  can  never  tell  whether  a  union  of  two  human 
mysteries  will  answer,"  said  Mrs.  Creswick,  judicially. 
"Maurice  Delarey  is  wonderfully  good-looking." 

"Yes,  and  Hermione  isn't." 

"That  has  never  mattered  in  the  least." 

"I  know.     I  didn't  say  it  had.     But  will  it  now?" 

"Why  should  it?" 

15 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Men  care  so  much  for  looks.  Do  you  think  Her- 
mione  loves  Mr.  Delarey  for  his?" 

"She  dives  deep." 

"Yes,  as  a  rule." 

"Why  not  now?  She  ought  to  have  dived  deeper 
than  ever  this  time." 

"She  ought,  of  course.  I  perfectly  understand  that. 
But  it's  very  odd,  I  think  we  often  marry  the  man  we 
understand  less  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Mys- 
tery is  so  very  attractive." 

Miss  Townly  sighed.  She  was  emaciated,  dark,  and 
always  dressed  to  look  mysterious. 

"Maurice  Delarey  is  scarcely  my  idea  of  a  mystery," 
said  Mrs.  Creswick,  taking  joyously  a  marron  glace.  "In 
my  opinion  he's  an  ordinarily  intelligent  but  an  extraor- 
dinarily handsome  man.  Hermione  is  exactly  the  re- 
verse, extraordinarily  intelligent  and  almost  ugly." 

"Oh  no,  not  ugly!"  said  Miss  Townly,  with  unex- 
pected warmth. 

Though  of  a  tepid  personality,  she  was  a  worshipper 
at  Hermione's  shrine. 

"Her  eyes  are  beautiful,"  she  added. 

"Good  eyes  don't  make  a  beauty,"  said  Mrs.  Cres- 
wick again,  looking  at  her  three-quarters  face  in  the 
glass.  "Hermione  is  too  large,  and  her  face  is  too 
square,  and — but  as  I  said  before,  it  doesn't  matter  the 
least.  Hermione's  got  a  temperament  that  carries  all 
before  it." 

"I  do  wish  I  had  a  temperament,"  said  Miss  Townly. 
"I  try  to  cultivate  one." 

"You  might  as  well  try  to  cultivate  a  mustache," 
Mrs.  Creswick  rather  brutally  rejoined.  "If  it's  there, 
it's  there,  but  if  it  isn't  one  prays  in  vain." 

"I  used  to  think  Hermione  would  do  something," 
continued  Miss  Townly,  finishing  her  second  cup  of  tea 
with  thirsty  languor. 

"Do  something?" 

16 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Something  important,  great,  something  that  would 
make  her  famous,  but  of  course  now" — she  paused — 
"now  it's  too  late,"  she  concluded.  " Marriage  destroys, 
not  creates  talent.  Some  celebrated  man  —  I  forget 
which — has  said  something  like  that." 

"Perhaps  he'd  destroyed  his  wife's.  I  think  Her- 
mione  might  be  a  great  mother." 

Miss  Townly  blushed  faintly.  She  did  nearly  every- 
thing faintly.  That  was  partly  why  she  admired  Her- 
mione. 

"And  a  great  mother  is  rare,"  continued  Mrs.  Cres- 
wick.  "Good  mothers  are,  thank  God,  quite  common 
even  in  London,  whatever  those  foolish  people  who 
rail  at  the  society  they  can't  get  into  may  say.  But 
great  mothers  are  seldom  met  with.  I  don't  know 
one." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  great  mother?"  inquired 
Miss  Townly. 

"A  mother  who  makes  seeds  grow.  Hermione  has 
a  genius  for  friendship  and  a  special  gift  for  inspiring 
others.  If  she  ever  has  a  child,  I  can  imagine  that  she 
will  make  of  that  child  something  wonderful." 

"  Do  you  mean  an  infant  prodigy  ?"  asked  Miss  Townly, 
innocently. 

"No,  dear,  I  don't!"  said  Mrs.  Creswick;  "I  mean 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Never  mind!" 

When  Mrs.  Creswick  said  "Never  mind!"  Miss  Townly 
usually  got  up  to  go.  She  got  up  to  go  now,  and  went 
forth  into  Sloane  Street  meditating,  as  she  would  have 
expressed  it,  "profoundly." 

Meanwhile  Artois  went  back  to  the  Hans  Crescent 
Hotel  on  foot.  He  walked  slowly  along  the  greasy 
pavement  through  the  yellow  November  fog,  trying  to 
combat  a  sensation  of  dreariness  which  had  floated 
round  his  spirit,  as  the  fog  floated  round  his  body, 
directly  he  stepped  into  the  street.  He  often  felt  de- 
pressed without  a  special  cause,  but  this  afternoon  there 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  a  special  cause  for  his  melancholy.  Hermione  was 
going  to  be  married. 

She  often  came  to  Paris,  where  she  had  many  friends, 
and  some  years  ago  they  had  met  at  a  dinner  given  by 
a  brilliant  Jewess,  who  delighted  in  clever  people,  not 
because  she  was  stupid,  but  for  the  opposite  reason. 
Artois  was  already  famous,  though  not  loved,  as  a 
novelist.  He  had  published  two  books;  works  of  art, 
cruel,  piercing,  brutal,  true.  Hermione  had  read  them. 
Her  intellect  had  revelled  in  them,  but  they  had  set 
ice  about  her  heart,  and  when  Madame  Enthoven  told 
her  who  was  going  to  take  her  in  to  dinner,  she  very 
nearly  begged  to  be  given  another  partner.  She  felt 
that  her  nature  must  be  in  opposition  to  this  man's. 

Artois  was  not  eager  for  the  honor  of  her  company. 
He  was  a  careful  dissecter  of  women,  and.  therefore, 
understood  how  mysterious  women  are;  but  in  his  in- 
timate life  they  counted  for  little.  He  regarded  them 
there  rather  as  the  European  traveller  regards  the 
Mousme"s  of  Japan,  as  playthings,  and  insisted  on  one 
thing  only — that  they  must  be  pretty.  A  Frenchman, 
despite  his  unusual  intellectual  power,  he  was  not  wholly 
emancipated  from  the  la  petite  femme  tradition,  which 
will  never  be  outmoded  in  Paris  while  Paris  hums  with 
life,  and,  therefore,  when  he  was  informed  that  he  was 
to  take  in  to  dinner  the  tall,  solidly  built,  big-waisted, 
rugged -faced  woman,  whom  he  had  been  observing 
from  a  distance  ever  since  he  came  into  the  drawing- 
room,  he  felt  that  he  was  being  badly  treated  by  his 
hostess. 

Yet  he  had  been  observing  this  woman  closely. 

Something  unusual,  something  vital  in  her  had 
drawn  his  attention,  fixed  it,  held  it.  He  knew  that, 
but  said  to  himself  that  it  was  the  attention  of  the 
novelist  that  had  been  grasped  by  an  uncommon  hu- 
man specimen,  and  that  the  man  of  the  world,  the  diner- 
out,  did  not  want  to  eat  in  company  with  a  specimen, 
18 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

but  to  throw  off  professional  cares  with  a  gay  little 
chatterbox  of  the  Mousme  type.  Therefore  he  came 
over  to  be  presented  to  Hermione  with  rather  a  bad 
grace. 

And  that  introduction  was  the  beginning  of  the  great 
friendship  which  was  now  troubling  him  in  the  fog. 

By  the  end  of  that  evening  Hermione  and  he  had 
entirely  rid  themselves  of  their  preconceived  notions 
of  each  other.  She  had  ceased  from  imagining  him  a 
walking  intellect  devoid  of  sympathies,  he  from  con- 
sidering her  a  possibly  interesting  specimen,  but  not 
the  type  of  woman  who  could  be  agreeable  in  a  man's 
life.  Her  naturalness  amounted  almost  to  genius.  She 
was  generally  unable  to  be  anything  but  natural,  un- 
able not  to  speak  as  she  was  feeling,  unable  to  feel  un- 
sympathetic. She  always  showed  keen  interest  when 
she  felt  it,  and,  with  transparent  sincerity,  she  at  once 
began  to  show  to  Artois  how  much  interested  she  was 
in  him.  By  doing  so  she  captivated  him  at  once.  He 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  captivated  by  the  heart 
without  the  brains,  but  the  two  in  combination  took 
possession  of  him  with  an  ease  which,  when  the  evening 
was  over,  but  only  then,  caused  him. some  astonishment. 

Hermione  had  a  divining-rod  to  discover  the  heart  in 
another,  and  she  found  out  at  once  that  Artois  had  a 
big  heart  as  well  as  a  fine  intellect.  He  was  deceptive 
because  he  was  always  ready  to  show  the  latter,  and 
almost  always  determined  to  conceal  the  former.  Even 
to  himself  he  was  not  quite  frank  about  his  heart,  but 
often  strove  to  minimize  its  influence  upon  him,  if  not 
to  ignore  totally  its  promptings  and  its  utterances. 
Why  this  was  so  he  could  not  perhaps  have  explained 
even  to  himself.  It  was  one  of  the  mysteries  of  his 
temperament.  From  the  first  moment  of  their  inter- 
course Hermione  showed  to  him  her  conviction  that 
he  had  a  warm  heart,  and  that  it  could  be  relied  upon 
without  hesitation.  This  piqued  but  presently  de- 
19 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

lighted,  and  also  soothed  Artois,  who  was  accustomed 
to  be  misunderstood,  and  had  often  thought  he  liked  to 
be  misunderstood,  but  who  now  found  out  how  pleasant 
a  brilliant  woman's  intuition  may  be,  even  at  a  Parisian 
dinner.  Before  the  evening  was  over  they  knew  that 
they  were  friends;  and  friends  they  had  remained  ever 
since. 

Artois  was  a  reserved  man,  but,  like  many  reserved 
people,  if  once  he  showed  himself  as  he  really  was,  he 
could  continue  to  be  singularly  frank.  He  was  singu- 
larly frank  with  Hermione.  She  became  his  confidante, 
often  at  a  distance.  He  scarcely  ever  came  to  Lon- 
don, which  he  disliked  exceedingly,  but  from  Paris  or 
from  the  many  lands  in  which  he  wandered — he  was 
no  pavement  lounger,  although  he  loved  Paris  rather  as 
a  man  may  love  a  very  chic  cocotte — he  wrote  to  Her- 
mione long  letters,  into  which  he  put  his  mind  and  heart, 
his  aspirations,  struggles,  failures,  triumphs.  They 
were  human  documents,  and  contained  much  of  his 
secret  history. 

It  was  of  this  history  that  he  was  now  thinking,  and 
of  Hermione's  comments  upon  it,  tied  up  with  a  ribbon 
in  Paris.  The  news  of  her  approaching  marriage  with 
a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen  had  given  him  a  rude 
shock,  had  awakened  in  him  a  strange  feeling  of  jealousy. 
He  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  Her- 
mione was  in  a  certain  sense  his  property.  He  realized 
thoroughly  the  egotism,  the  dog-in-the-manger  spirit 
which  was  alive  in  him,  and  hated  but  could  not  banish 
it.  As  a  friend  he  certainly  loved  Hermione.  She 
knew  that.  But  he  did  not  love  her  as  a  man  loves 
the  woman  he  wishes  to  make  his  wife.  She  must  know 
that,  too.  He  loved  her  but  was  not  in  love  with  her, 
and  she  loved  but  was  not  in  love  with  him.  Why, 
then,  should  this  marriage  make  a  difference  in  their 
friendship?  She  said  that  it  would  not,  but  he  felt 
that  it  must.  He  thought  of  her  as  a  wife,  then  as  a 
20 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

mother.  The  latter  thought  made  his  egotism  shud- 
der. She  would  be  involved  in  the  happy  turmoil  of  a 
family  existence,  while  he  would  remain  without  in  that 
loneliness  which  is  the  artist's  breath  of  life  and  martyr- 
dom. Yes,  his  egotism  shuddered,  and  he  was  angry 
at  the  weakness.  He  chastised  the  frailties  of  others, 
but  must  be  the  victim  of  his  own.  A  feeling  of  help- 
lessness came  to  him,  of  being  governed,  lashed,  driven. 
How  unworthy  was  his  sensation  of  hostility  against 
Delarey,  his  sensation  that  Hermione  was  wronging  him 
by  entering  into  this  alliance,  and  how  powerless  he  was 
to  rid  himself  of  either  sensation!  There  was  good 
cause  for  his  melancholy — his  own  folly.  He  must  try 
to  conquer  it,  and,  if  that  were  impossible,  to  rein  it  in 
before  the  evening. 

When  he  reached  the  hotel  he  went  into  his  sitting- 
room  and  worked  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  producing  a 
short  paragraph,  which  did  not  please  him.  Then  he 
took  a  hansom  and  drove  to  Peathill  Street. 

Hermione  was  already  there,  sitting  at  a  small  table 
in  a  corner  with  her  back  to  him,  opposite  to  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  he  had  ever  seen.  As  Artois  came  in, 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  this  man  with  a  scrutiny  that  was 
passionate,  trying  to  determine  at  a  glance  whether  he 
had  any  right  to  the  success  he  had  achieved,  any  fit- 
ness for  the  companionship  that  was  to  be  his,  com- 
panionship of  an  unusual  intellect  and  a  still  more  un- 
usual spirit. 

He  saw  a  man  obviously  much  younger  than  Her- 
mione, not  tall,  athletic  in  build  but  also  graceful,  with 
the  grace  that  is  shed  through  a  frame  by  perfectly 
developed,  not  over-developed  muscles  and  accurately 
trained  limbs,  a  man  of  the  Mercury  rather  than  of  the 
Hercules  type,  with  thick,  low-growing  black  hair,  vivid, 
enthusiastic  black  eyes,  set  rather  wide  apart  under 
curved  brows,  and  very  perfectly  proportioned,  small, 
straight  features,  which  were  not  undecided,  yet  which 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

suggested  the  features  of  a  boy.  In  the  complexion 
there  was  a  tinge  of  brown  that  denoted  health  and  an 
out -door  life  —  an  out -door  life  in  the  south,  Artois 
thought. 

As  Artois,  standing  quite  still,  unconsciously,  in  the 
doorway  of  the  restaurant,  looked  at  this  man,  he  felt 
for  a  moment  as  if  he  himself  were  a  splendid  specimen 
of  a  cart-horse  faced  by  a  splendid  specimen  of  a  race- 
horse. The  comparison  he  was  making  was  only  one 
of  physical  endowments,  but  it  pained  him.  Thinking 
with  an  extraordinary  rapidity,  he  asked  himself  why 
it  was  that  this  man  struck  him  at  once  as  very  much 
handsomer  than  other  men  with  equally  good  features 
and  figures  whom  he  had  seen,  and  he  found  at  once 
the  answer  to  his  question.  It  was  the  look  of  Mercury 
in  him  that  made  him  beautiful,  a  look  of  radiant  readi- 
ness for  swift  movement  that  suggested  the  happy  mes- 
senger poised  for  flight  to  the  gods,  his  mission  accom- 
plished, the  expression  of  an  intensely  vivid  activity 
that  could  be  exquisitely  obedient.  There  was  an 
extraordinary  fascination  in  it.  Artois  realized  that, 
for  he  was  fascinated  even  in  this  bitter  moment  that 
he  told  himself  ought  not  to  be  bitter.  While  he  gazed 
at  Delarey  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  that  had  some- 
times come  upon  him  when  he  had  watched  Sicilian 
peasant  boys  dancing  the  tarantella  under  the  stars 
by  the  Ionian  sea,  a  feeling  that  one  thing  in  creation 
ought  to  be  immortal  on  earth,  the  passionate,  leaping 
flame  of  joyous  youth,  physically  careless,  physically 
rapturous,  unconscious  of  death  and  of  decay.  De- 
larey seemed  to  him  like  a  tarantella  in  repose,  if  such 
a  thing  could  be. 

Suddenly  Hermione  turned  round,  as  if  conscious  that 
he  was  there.  When  she  did  so  he  understood  in  the 
very  depths  of  him  why  such  a  man  as  Delarey  at- 
tracted, must  attract,  such  a  woman  as  Hermione. 
That  which  she  had  in  the  soul  Delarey  seemed  to  ex- 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

press  in  the  body  —  sympathy,  enthusiasm,  swiftness, 
courage.  He  was  like  a  statue  of  her  feelings,  but  a 
statue  endowed  with  life.  And  the  fact  that  her 
physique  was  a  sort  of  contradiction  of  her  inner  self 
must  make  more  powerful  the  charm  of  a  Delarey  for 
her.  As  Hermione  looked  round  at  him,  turning  her 
tall  figure  rather  slowly  in  the  chair,  Artois  made  up 
his  mind  that  she  had  been  captured  by  the  physique 
of  this  man.  He  could  not  be  surprised,  but  he  still 
felt  angry. 

Hermione  introduced  Delarey  to  him  eagerly,  not 
attempting  to  hide  her  anxiety  for  the  two  men  to 
make  friends  at  once.  Her  desire  was  so  transparent 
and  so  warm  that  for  a  moment  Artois  felt  touched, 
and  inclined  to  trample  upon  his  evil  mood  and  leave 
no  trace  of  it.  He  was  also  secretly  too  human  to  re- 
main wholly  unmoved  by  Delarey's  reception  of  him. 
Delarey  had  a  rare  charm  of  manner  whose  source  was 
a  happy,  but  not  foolishly  shy,  modesty,  which  made 
him  eager  to  please,  and  convinced  that  in  order  to  do 
so  he  must  bestir  himself  and  make  an  affort.  But  in 
this  effort  there  was  no  labor.  It  was  like  the  spurt  of 
a  willing  horse,  a  fine  racing  pace  of  the  nature  that 
woke  pleasure  and  admiration  in  those  who  watched  it. 

Artois  felt  at  once  that  Delarey  had  no  hostility  tow- 
ards him,  but  was  ready  to  admire  and  rejoice  in  him 
as  Hermione's  greatest  friend.  He  was  met  more  than 
half-way.  Yet  when  he  was  beside  Delarey,  almost 
touching  him,  the  stubborn  sensation  of  furtive  dis- 
like within  Artois  increased,  and  he  consciously  deter- 
mined not  to  yield  to  the  charm  of  this  younger  man 
who  was  going  to  interfere  in  his  life.  Artois  did  not 
speak  much  English,  but  fortunately  Delarey  talked 
French  fairly  well,  not  with  great  fluency  like  Hermione, 
but  enough  to  take  a  modest  share  in  conversation, 
which  was  apparently  all  the  share  that  he  desired. 
Artois  believed  that  he  was  no  great  talker.  His  eyes 
23 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

were  more  eager  than  was  his  tongue,  and  seemed  to 
betoken  a  vivacity  of  spirit  which  he  could  not,  perhaps, 
show  forth  in  words.  The  conversation  at  first  was 
mainly  between  Hermione  and  Artois,  with  an  occasional 
word  from  Delarey — generally  interrogative — and  was 
confined  to  generalities.  But  this  could  not  continue 
long.  Hermione  was  an  enthusiastic  talker  and  seldom 
discussed  banalities.  From  every  circle  where  she 
found  herself  the  inane  was  speedily  banished;  pale 
topics — the  spectres  that  haunt  the  dull  and  are  cherish- 
ed by  them — were  whipped  away  to  limbo,  and  some 
subject  full-blooded,  alive  with  either  serious  or  comi- 
cal possibilities,  was  very  soon  upon  the  carpet.  By 
chance  Artois  happened  to  speak  of  two  people  in 
Paris,  common  friends  of  his  and  of  Hermione's,  who 
had  been  very  intimate,  but  who  had  now  quarrelled, 
and  every  one  said,  irrevocably.  The  question  arose 
whose  fault  was  it.  Artois,  who  knew  the  facts  of  the 
case,  and  whose  judgment  was  usually  cool  and  well- 
balanced,  said  it  was  the  woman's. 

"Madame  Lagrande,"  he  said,  "has  a  fine  nature,  but 
in  this  instance  it  has  failed  her,  it  has  been  warped  by 
jealousy;  not  the  jealousy  that  often  accompanies  pas- 
sion, for  she  and  Robert  Meunier  were  only  great  friends, 
linked  together  by  similar  sympathies,  but  by  a  much 
more  subtle  form  of  that  mental  disease.  You  know, 
Hermione,  that  both  of  them  are  brilliant  critics  of 
literature?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"They  carried  on  a  sort  of  happy,  but  keen  rivalry  in 
this  walk  of  letters,  each  striving  to  be  more  unerring 
than  the  other  in  dividing  the  sheep  from  the  goats. 
I  am  the  guilty  person  who  made  discord  where  there 
had  been  harmony." 

"You,  Emile!     How  was  that?" 

"One  day  I  said,  in  a  bitter  mood,  'It  is  so  easy  to 
be  a  critic,  so  difficult  to  be  a  creator.  You  two,  now 
34 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

— would  you  even  dare  to  try  to  create?'  They  were 
nettled  by  my  tone,  and  showed  it.  I  said,  '  I  have  a  mag- 
nificent subject  for  a  conte,  no  work  de  longue  haleine, 
a  conte.  If  you  like  I  will  give  it  you,  and  leave  you 
to  Create — separately,  not  together — what  you  have  so 
often  written  about,  the  perfect  conte.'  They  accepted 
my  challenge.  I  gave  them  my  subject  and  a  month 
to  work  it  out.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  two  contes 
were  to  be  submitted  to  a  jury  of  competent  literary 
men,  friends  of  ours.  It  was  all  a  sort  of  joke,  but 
created  great  interest  in  our  circle — you  know  it,  Her- 
mione,  that  dines  at  Reneau's  on  Thursday  nights?" 

"Yes.     Well,  what  happened?" 

"Madame  Lagrande  made  a  failure  of  hers,  but 
Robert  Meunier  astonished  us  all.  He  produced  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  best  contes  that  was  ever  written  in  the 
French  language." 

"And  Madame  Lagrande?" 

"It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  from  that  moment 
she  has  almost  hated  Robert." 

"And  you  dare  to  say  she  has  a  noble  nature?" 

"Yes,  a  noble  nature  from  which,  under  some  ap- 
parently irresistible  impulse,  she  has  lapsed." 

"Maurice,"  said  Hermione,  leaning  her  long  arms  on 
the  table  and  leaning  forward  to  her  fiance,  "you're  not 
in  literature  any  more  than  I  am,  you're  an  outsider — 
bless  you!  What  d'you  say  to  that?" 

Delarey  hesitated  and  looked  modestly  at  Artois. 

"No,  no,"  cried  Hermione,  "none  of  that,  Maurice! 
You  may  be  a  better  judge  in  this  than  Emile  is  with 
all  his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart.  You're  the  man 
in  the  street,  and  sometimes  I'd  give  a  hundred  pounds 
for  his  opinion  and  not  twopence  for  the  big  man's 
who's  in  the  profession.  Would — could  a  noble  nature 
yield  to  such  an  impulse?" 

"I  should  hardly  have  thought  so,"  said  Delarey. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Hermione.  "  I  simply  don't  believe  it's 
25 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

possible.  For  a  moment,  yes,  perhaps.  But  you  say, 
Emile,  that  there's  an  actual  breach  between  them." 

"There  is  certainly.  Have  you  ever  made  any  study 
of  jealousy  in  its  various  forms?" 

"Never.  I  don't  know  what  jealousy  is.  I  can't 
understand  it." 

"  Yet  you  must  be  capable  of  it." 

"You  think  every  one  is?" 

"Very  few  who  are  really  alive  in  the  spirit  are  not. 
And  you,  I  am  certain,  are." 

Hermione  laughed,  an  honest,  gay  laugh,  that  rang 
out  wholesomely  in  the  narrow  room. 

"I  doubt  it,  Emile.  Perhaps  I'm  too  conceited.  For 
instance,  if  I  cared  for  some  one  and  was  cared  for — " 

"And  the  caring  of  the  other  ceased,  because  he  had 
only  a  certain,  limited  faculty  of  affection  and  trans- 
ferred his  affection  elsewhere — what  then?" 

"I've  so  much  pride,  proper  or  improper,  that  I  be- 
lieve my  affection  would  die.  My  love  subsists  on 
sympathy — take  that  food  from  it  and  it  would  starve 
and  cease  to  live.  I  give,  but  when  giving  I  always  ask. 
If  I  were  to  be  refused  I  couldn't  give  any  more.  And 
without  the  love  .there  could  be  no  jealousy.  But  that 
isn't  the  point,  Emile." 

He  smiled. 

"What  is?" 

"The  point  is — can  a  noble  nature  lapse  like  that 
from  its  nobility?" 

"Yes,  it  can." 

"Then  it  changes,  it  ceases  to  be  noble.  You  would 
not  say  that  a  brave  man  can  show  cowardice  and  re- 
main a  brave  man." 

"  I  would  say  that  a  man  whose  real  nature  was  brave, 
might,  under  certain  circumstances,  show  fear,  without 
being  what  is  called  a  coward.  Human  nature  is  full 
of  extraordinary  possibilities,  good  and  evil,  of  extraor- 
dinary contradictions.  But  this  point  I  will  concede 
26 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

you,  that  it  is  like  the  boomerang,  which  flies  forward, 
circles,  and  returns  to  the  point  from  which  it  started. 
The  inherently  noble  nature  will,  because  it  must,  re- 
turn eventually  to  its  nobility.  Then  comes  the  really 
tragic  moment  with  the  passion  of  remorse." 

He  spoke  quietly,  almost  coldly.  Hermione  looked 
at  him  with  shining  eyes.  She  had  quite  forgotten 
Madame  Lagrande  and  Robert  Meunier,  had  lost  the 
sense  of  the  special  in  her  love  of  the  general. 

"That's  a  grand  theory,"  she  said.  "That  we  must 
come  back  to  the  good  that  is  in  us  in  the  end,  that 
we  must  be  true  to  that  somehow,  almost  whether  we 
will  or  no.  I  shall  try  to  think  of  that  when  I  am  sin- 
ning." 

"You — sinning!"  exclaimed  Delarey. 

"  Maurice,  dear,  you  think  too  well  of  me." 

Delarey  flushed  like  a  boy,  and  glanced  quickly  at 
Artois,  who  did  not  return  his  gaze. 

"But  if  that's  true,  Emile,"  Hermione  continued, 
"  Madame  Lagrande  and  Robert  Meunier  will  be  friends 
again." 

"Some  day  I  know  she  will  hold  out  the  olive-branch, 
but  what  if  he  refuses  it?" 

"You  literary  people  are  dreadfully  difficile." 

"True.  Our  jealousies  are  ferocious,  but  so  are  the 
jealousies  of  thousands  who  can  neither  read  nor  write." 

"Jealousy,"  she  said,  forgetting  to  eat  in  her  keen 
interest  in  the  subject.  "I  told  you  I  didn't  believe 
myself  capable  of  it,  but  I  don't  know.  The  jealousy 
that  is  born  of  passion  I  might  understand  and  suffer, 
perhaps,  but  jealousy  of  a  talent  greater  than  my  own, 
or  of  one  that  I  didn't  possess — that  seems  to  me  in- 
explicable. I  could  never  be  jealous  of  a  talent." 

"You  mean  that  you  could  never  hate  a  person  for  a 
talent  in  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  that  some  one,  by  means  of  a  talent  which 
3  27 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

you  had  not,  won  from  you  a  love  which  you  had  ? 
Talent  is  a  weapon,  you  know." 

"You  think  it  is  a  weapon  to  conquer  the  affections! 
Ah,  Emile,  after  all  you  don't  know  us!" 

"You  go  too  fast.  I  did  not  say  a  weapon  to  con- 
quer the  affection  of  a  woman." 

"You're  speaking  of  men?" 

"I  know,"  Delarey  said,  suddenly,  forgetting  to  be 
modest  for  once,  "you  mean  that  a  man  might  be  won 
away  from  one  woman  by  a  talent  in  another.  Isn't 
that  it?" 

"Ah,"  said  Hermione,  "a  man — I  see." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  considering  deeply,  with  her 
luminous  eyes  fixed  on  the  food  in  her  plate,  food  which 
she  did  not  see. 

"What  horrible  ideas  you  sometimes  have,  Emile," 
she  said,  at  last. 

"You  mean  what  horrible  truths  exist,"  he  answered, 
quietly. 

"Could  a  man  be  won  so?  Yes,  I  suppose  he  might 
be  if  there  were  a  combination." 

"Exactly,"  said  Artois. 

"I  see  now.  Suppose  a  man  had  two  strains  in  him, 
say:  the  adoration  of  beauty,  of  the  physical;  and  the 
adoration  of  talent,  of  the  mental.  He  might  fall  in 
love  with  a  merely  beautiful  woman  and  transfer  his 
affections  if  he  came  across  an  equally  beautiful  woman 
who  had  some  great  talent." 

"Or  he  might  fall  in  love  with  a  plain,  talented  wom- 
an, and  be  taken  from  her  by  one  in  whom  talent  was 
allied  with  beauty.  But  in  either  case  are  you  sure 
that  the  woman  deserted  could  never  be  jealous,  bit- 
terly jealous,  of  the  talent  possessed  by  the  other 
woman  ?  I  think  talent  often  creates  jealousy  in  your 
sex." 

"But  beauty  much  oftener,  oh,  much!  Every  wom- 
an, I  feel  sure,  could  more  easily  be  jealous  of  physical 
28 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

beauty  in  another  woman  than  of  mental  gifts.  There's 
something  so  personal  in  beauty." 

"And  is  genius  not  equally  personal?'.' 

"I  suppose  it  is,  but  I  doubt  if  it  seems  so." 

"I  think  you  leave  out  of  account  the  advance  of 
civilization,  which  is  greatly  changing  men  and  women 
in  our  day.  The  tragedies  of  the  mind  are  increas- 
ing." 

"And  the  tragedies  of  the  heart — are  they  diminish- 
ing in  consequence?  Oh,  Emile!"  And  she  laughed. 

"Hermione — your  food!  You  are  not  eating  any- 
thing!" said  Delarey,  gently,  pointing  to  her  plate. 
"And  it's  all  getting  cold." 

"Thank  you,  Maurice." 

She  began  to  eat  at  once  with  an  air  of  happy  sub- 
mission, which  made  Artois  understand  a  good  deal 
about  her  feeling  for  Delarey. 

"The  heart  will  always  rule  the  head,  I  dare  say,  in 
this  world  where  the  majority  will  always  be  thought- 
less," said  Artois.  "But  the  greatest  jealousy,  the 
jealousy  which  is  most  difficult  to  resist  and  to  govern, 
is  that  in  which  both  heart  and  brain  are  concerned. 
That  is,  indeed,  a  full-fledged  monster." 

Artois  generally  spoke  with  a  good  deal  of  authority, 
often  without  meaning  to  do  so.  He  thought  so  clearly, 
knew  so  exactly  what  he  was  thinking  and  what  he 
meant,  that  he  felt  very  safe  in  conversation,  and  from 
this  sense  of  safety  sprang  his  air  of  masterfulness.  It 
was  an  air  that  was  always  impressive,  but  to-night  it 
specially  struck  Hermione.  Now  she  laid  down  her 
knife  and  fork  once  more,  to  Delarey's  half-amused  de- 
spair, and  exclaimed: 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  way  you  said  that.  Even 
if  it  were  nonsense  one  would  have  to  believe  it  for  the 
moment,  and  of  course  it's  dreadfully  true.  Intellect 
and  heart  suffering  in  combination  must  be  far  more 
terrible  than  the  one  suffering  without  the  other.  No, 
29 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

Maurice,  I've  really  finished.     I  don't  want  any  more. 
Let's  have  our  coffee." 

"The  Turkish  coffee,"  said  Artois,  with  a  smile. 
"Do  you  like  Turkish  coffee,  Monsieur  Delarey?" 

"Yes,  monsieur.     Hermione  has  taught  me  to." 

"Ah!" 

"At  first  it  seemed  to  me  too  full  of  grounds,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

"Perhaps  a  taste  for  it  must  be  an  acquired  one 
among  Europeans.  Do  we  have  it  here?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Hermione,  "Caminiti  has  taken  my 
advice,  and  now  there's  a  charming  smoke-room  behind 
this.  Come  along." 

She  got  up  and  led  the  way  out.  The  two  men  fol- 
lowed her,  Artois  coming  last.  He  noticed  now  more 
definitely  the  very  great  contrast  between  Hermione 
and  her  future  husband.  Delarey,  when  in  movement, 
looked  more  than  ever  like  a  Mercury.  His  footstep 
was  light  and  elastic,  and  his  whole  body  seemed  to 
breathe  out  a  gay  activity,  a  fulness  of  the  joy  of  life. 
Again  Artois  thought  of  Sicilian  boys  dancing  the 
tarantella,  and  when  they  were  in  the  small  smoke- 
room,  which  Caminiti  had  fitted  up  in  what  he  believed 
to  be  Oriental  style,  and  which,  though  scarcely  accurate, 
was  quite  cosey,  he  was  moved  to  inquire: 

"  Pardon  me,  monsieur,  but  are  you  entirely  English  ?" 

"No,  monsieur.  My  mother  has  Sicilian  blood  in  her 
veins.  But  I  have  never  been  in  Sicily  or  Italy." 

"Ah,  Emile,"  said  Hermione,  "how  clever  of  you  to 
find  that  out.  I  notice  it,  too,  sometimes,  that  touch 
of  the  blessed  South.  I  shall  take  him  there  some  day, 
and  see  if  the  Southern  blood  doesn't  wake  up  in  his 
veins  when  he's  in  the  rays  of  the  real  sun  we  never  see 
in  England." 

"  She'll  take  you  to  Italy,  you  fortunate,  damned  dog!" 
thought  Artois.  "What  luck  for  you  to  go  there  with 
such  a  companion!" 

3° 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

They  sat  down  and  the  two  men  began  to  smoke. 
Hermione  never  smoked  because  she  had  tried  smoking 
and  knew  she  hated  it.  They  were  alone  in  the  room, 
which  was  warm,  but  not  too  warm,  and  faintly  lit  by 
shaded  lamps.  Artois  began  to  feel  more  genial,  he 
scarcely  knew  why.  Perhaps  the  good  dinner  had  com- 
forted him,  or  perhaps  he  was  beginning  to  yield  to  the 
charm  of  Delarey's  gay  and  boyish  modesty,  which  was 
untainted  and  unspoiled  by  any  awkward  shyness. 

Artois  did  not  know  or  seek  to  know,  but  he  was 
aware  that  he  was  more  ready  to  be  happy  with  the 
flying  moment  than  he  had  been,  or  had  expected  to  be 
that  evening.  Something  almost  paternal  shone  in  his 
gray  eyes  as  he  stretched  his  large  limbs  on  Caminiti's 
notion  of  a  Turkish  divan,  and  watched  the  first  smoke- 
wreaths  rise  from  his  cigar,  a  light  which  made  his  face 
most  pleasantly  expressive  to  Hermione. 

"  He  likes  Maurice,"  she  thought,  with  a  glow  of  pleas- 
ure, and  with  the  thought  came  into  her  heart  an  even 
deeper  love  for  Maurice.  For  it  was  a  triumph,  indeed,  if 
Artois  were  captured  speedily  by  any  one.  It  seemed 
to  her  just  then  as  if  she  had  never  known  what  per- 
fect happiness  was  till  now,  when  she  sat  between  her 
best  friend  and  her  lover,  and  sensitively  felt  that  in 
the  room  there  were  not  three  separate  persons  but 
a  Trinity.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  comfortable 
silence.  Then  an  Italian  boy  brought  in  the  coffee. 
Artois  spoke  to  him  in  Italian.  His  eyes  lit  up  as  he 
answered  with  the  accent  of  Naples,  lit  up  still  more 
when  Artois  spoke  to  him  again  in  his  own  dialect. 
When  he  had  served  the  coffee  he  went  out,  glowing. 

"Is  your  honeymoon  to  be  Italian?"  asked  Artois. 

"Whatever  Hermione  likes,"  answered  Delarey.  "I 
— it  doesn't  matter  to  me.  Wherever  it  is  will  be  the 
same  to  me." 

"Happiness  makes  every  land  an  Italy,  eh?"  said 
Artois.  "I  expect  that's  profoundly  true." 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Don't  you — don't  you  know?"  ventured  Delarey. 

"I!  My  friend,  one  cannot  be  proficient  in  every 
branch  of  knowledge." 

He  spoke  the  words  without  bitterness,  with  a  calm 
that  had  in  it  something  more  sad  than  bitterness. 
It  struck  both  Hermione  and  Delarey  as  almost  mon- 
strous that  anybody  with  whom  they  were  connected 
should  be  feeling  coldly  unhappy  at  this  moment.  Life 
presented  itself  to  them  in  a  glorious  radiance  of  sun- 
shine, in  a  passionate  light,  in  a  torrent  of  color.  Their 
knowledge  of  life's  uncertainties  was  rocked  asleep  by 
their  dual  sensation  of  personal  joy,  and  they  felt  as 
if  every  one  ought  to  be  as  happy  as  they  were,  almost 
as  if  every  one  could  be  as  happy  as  they  were. 

"Emile,"  said  Hermione,  led  by  this  feeling,  "you 
can't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  never  known  the  hap- 
piness that  makes  of  every  place  —  Clapham,  Lippe- 
Detmold,  a  West  African  swamp,  a  Siberian  convict 
settlement — an  Italy  ?  You  have  had  a  wonderful  life. 
You  have  worked,  you  have  wandered,  had  your  am- 
bition and  your  freedom — " 

"But  my  eyes  have  been  always  wide  open,"  he  in- 
terrupted, "wide  open  on  life  watching  the  manifesta- 
tions of  life." 

"Haven't  you  ever  been  able  to  shut  them  for  a 
minute  to  everything  but  your  own  happiness?  Oh, 
it's  selfish,  I  know,  but  it  does  one  good,  Emile,  any 
amount  of  good,  to  be  selfish  like  that  now  and  then. 
It  reconciles  one  so  splendidly  to  existence.  It's  like  a 
spring  cleaning  of  the  soul.  And  then,  I  think,  when  one 
opens  one's  eyes  again  one  sees — one  must  see — every- 
thing more  rightly,  not  dressed  up  in  frippery,  not  hor- 
ribly naked  either,  but  truly,  accurately,  neither  over- 
looking graces  nor  dwelling  on  distortions.  D'you  under- 
stand what  I  mean  ?  Perhaps  I  don't  put  it  well,  but — 

"I  do  understand,"  he  said.  "There's  truth  in  what 
you  say." 

32 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Yes,  isn't  there?"  said  Delarey. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Hermione  with  an  intense 
eagerness  of  admiration  and  love. 

Suddenly  Artois  felt  immensely  old,  as  he  sometimes 
felt  when  he  saw  children  playing  with  frantic  happi- 
ness at  mud-pies  or  snowballing.  A  desire,  which  his 
true  self  condemned,  came  to  him  to  use  his  intellectual 
powers  cruelly,  and  he  yielded  to  it,  forgetting  the  be- 
nign spirit  which  had  paid  him  a  moment's  visit  and 
vanished  almost  ere  it  had  arrived. 

"There's  truth  in  what  you  say.  But  there's  an- 
other truth,  too,  which  you  bring  to  my  mind  at  this 
moment." 

"What's  that,  Emile?" 

"The  payment  that  is  exacted  from  great  happiness. 
These  intense  joys  of  which  you  speak — what  are  they 
followed  by  ?  Haven't  you  observed  that  any  violence 
in  one  direction  is  usually,  almost,  indeed,  inevitably, 
followed  by  a  violence  in  the  opposite  direction?  Hu- 
manity is  treading  a  beaten  track,  the  crowd  of  hu- 
manity, and  keeps,  as  a  crowd,  to  this  highway.  But 
individuals  leave  the  crowd,  searchers,  those  who  need 
the  great  changes,  the  great  fortunes  that  are  danger- 
ous. On  one  side  of  the  track  is  a  garden  of  paradise; 
on  the  other  a  deadly  swamp.  The  man  or  woman 
who,  leaving  the  highway,  enters  the  garden  of  para- 
dise is  almost  certain  in  the  fulness  of  time  to  be  strug- 
gling in  the  deadly  swamp." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  misery  is  born  of  happi- 
ness?" 

"Of  what  other  parent  can  it  be  the  child?  In  my 
opinion  those  who  are  said  to  be  'born  in  misery'  never 
know  what  real  misery  is.  It  is  only  those  who  have 
drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of  joy  who  can  drink  deep  of  the 
cup  of  sorrow." 

Hermione  was  about  to  speak,  but  Delarey  suddenly 
burst  in  with  the  vehement  exclamation: 
33 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Where's  the  courage  in  keeping  to  the  beaten  track? 
Where's  the  courage  in  avoiding  the  garden  for  fear  of 
the  swamp?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  Her- 
mione,  her  whole  face  lighting  up.  "I  never  expected 
to  hear  a  counsel  of  cowardice  from  you,  Emile." 

"Or  is  it  a  counsel  of  prudence?" 

He  looked  at  them  both  steadily,  feeling  still  as  if  he 
were  face  to  face  with  children.  For  a  man  he  was 
unusually  intuitive,  and  to-night  suddenly,  and  after 
he  had  begun  to  yield  to  his  desire  to  be  cruel,  to  say 
something  that  would  cloud  this  dual  happiness  in 
which  he  had  no  share,  he  felt  a  strange,  an  almost 
prophetic  conviction  that  out  of  the  joy  he  now  con- 
templated would  be  born  the  gaunt  offspring,  misery, 
of  which  he  had  just  spoken.  With  the  coming  of  this 
conviction,  which  he  did  not  even  try  to  explain  to 
himself  or  to  combat,  came  an  abrupt  change  in  his 
feelings.  Bitterness  gave  place  to  an  anxiety  that  was 
far  more  human,  to  a  desire  to  afford  some  protection 
to  these  two  people  with  whom  he  was  sitting.  But 
how  ?  And  against  what  ?  He  did  not  know.  His 
intuition  stopped  short  when  he  strove  to  urge  it  on. 

"Prudence,"  said  Hermione.  "You  think  it  pru- 
dent to  avoid  the  joy  life  throws  at  your  feet?" 

Abruptly  provoked  by  his  own  limitations,  angry, 
too,  with  his  erratic  mental  departure  from  the  realm 
of  reason  into  the  realm  of  fantasy — for  so  he  called  the 
debatable  land  over  which  intuition  held  sway — Artois 
hounded  out  his  mood  and  turned  upon  himself. 

"Don't  listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  am  the  profession- 
al analyst  of  life.  As  I  sit  over  a  sentence,  examining, 
selecting,  rejecting,  replacing  its  words,  so  do  I  sit  over 
the  emotions  of  myself  and  others  till  I  cease  really  to 
live,  and  could  almost  find  it  in  my  head  to  try  to  pre- 
vent them  from  living,  too.  Live,  live — enter  into  the 
garden  of  paradise  and  never  mind  what  comes  after." 
34 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  could  not  do  anything  else,"  said  Hermione.  "It 
is  unnatural  to  me  to  look  forward.  The  'now'  nearly 
always  has  complete  possession  of  me." 

"And  I,"  said  Artois,  lightly,  "am  always  trying  to 
peer  round  the  corner  to  see  what  is  coming.  And  you, 
Monsieur  Delarey?" 

"I!"  said  Delarey. 

He  had  not  expected  to  be  addressed  just  then,  and 
for  a  moment  looked  confused. 

"I  don't  know  if  I  can  say,"  he  answered,  at  last. 
"But  I  think  if  the  present  was  happy  I  should  try  to 
live  in  that,  and  if  it  was  sad  I  should  have  a  shot  at 
looking  forward  to  something  better." 

"That's  one  of  the  best  philosophies  I  ever  heard," 
said  Hermione,  "and  after  my  own  heart.  Long  live 
the  philosophy  of  Maurice  Delarey!" 

Delarey  blushed  with  pleasure  like  a  boy.  Just  then 
three  men  came  in  smoking  cigars.  Hermione  looked 
at  her  watch. 

"Past  eleven,"  she  said.  "I  think  I'd  better  go. 
Emile,  will  you  drive  with  me  home?" 

"I!"  he  said,  with  an  unusual  diffidence.     "May  I?" 

He  glanced  at  Delarey. 

"I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Maurice  quite 
understands.  He  knows  you  go  back  to  Paris  to- 
morrow." 

They  all  got  up,  and  Delarey  at  once  held  out  his 
hand  to  Artois. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  been  allowed  to  meet  Hermione 's 
best  friend,"  he  said,  simply.  "I  know  how  much  you 
are  to  her,  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  be  a  friend,  too, 
perhaps,  some  day." 

He  wrung  Artois's  hand  warmly. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  replied  Artois. 

He  strove  hard  to  speak  as  cordially  as  Delarey. 

Two  or  three  minutes  later  Hermione  and  he  were  in 
a  hansom  driving  down  Regent  Street.  The  fog  had 
35 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

lifted,  and  it  was  possible  to  see  to  right  and  left  of  the 
greasy  thoroughfare. 

"Need  we  go  straight  back?"  said  Hermione.  "Why 
not  tell  him  to  drive  down  to  the  Embankment?  It's 
quiet  there  at  night,  and  open  and  fine — one  of  the  few 
fine  things  in  dreary  old  London.  And  I  want  to  have 
a  last  talk  with  you,  Emile." 

Artois  pushed  up  the  little  door  in  the  roof  with  his 
stick. 

"The  Embankment — Thames,"  he  said  to  the  cab- 
man, with  a  strong  foreign  accent. 

"Right,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  in  the  purest  cockney. 

As  soon  as  the  trap  was  shut  down  above  her  head 
Hermione  exclaimed: 

"Emile,  I'm  so  happy,  so — so  happy!  I  think  you 
must  understand  why  now.  You  don't  wonder  any 
more,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  wonder.  But  did  I  ever  express  any 
wonder?" 

"I  think  you  felt  some.  But  I  knew  when  you  saw 
him  it  would  go.  He's  got  one  beautiful  quality  that's 
very  rare  in  these  days,  I  think — reverence.  I  love 
that  in  him.  He  really  reverences  everything  that  is 
fine,  every  one  who  has  fine  and  noble  aspirations  and 
powers.  He  reverences  you." 

"If  that  is  the  case  he  shows  very  little  insight." 

"Don't  abuse  yourself  to  me  to-night.  There's  noth- 
ing the  matter  now,  is  there?" 

Her  intonation  demanded  a  negative,  but  Artois  did 
not  hasten  to  give  it.  Instead  he  turned  the  conversa- 
tion once  more  to  Delarey. 

"Tell  me  something  more  about  him,"  he  said. 
"What  sort  of  family  does  he  come  from?" 

"Oh,  a  very  ordinary  family,  well  off,  but  not  what  is 
called  specially  well-born.  His  father  has  a  large  ship- 
ping business.  He's  a  cultivated  man,  and  went  to  Eton 
and  Oxford,  as  Maurice  did.  Maurice's  mother  is  very 
36 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

handsome,  not  at  all  intellectual,  but  fascinating.  The 
Southern  blood  comes  from  her  side." 

"Oh— how?" 

"Her  mother  was  a  Sicilian." 

:'Of  the  aristocracy,  or  of  the  people?" 

"  She  was  a  lovely  contadina.  But  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? I  am  not  marrying  Maurice's  grandmother." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"You  mean  that  our  ancestors  live  in  us.  Well,  I 
can't  bother.  If  Maurice  were  a  crossing-sweeper,  and 
his  grandmother  had  been  an  evilly  disposed  charwom- 
an, who  could  never  get  any  one  to  trust  her  to  char, 
I'd  marry  him  to-morrow  if  he'd  have  me." 

"I'm  quite  sure  you  would." 

"Besides,  probably  the  grandmother  was  a  delicious 
old  dear.  But  didn't  you  like  Maurice,  Emile?  I  felt 
so  sure  you  did." 

"I — yes,  I  liked  him.  I  see  his  fascination.  It  is 
almost  absurdly  obvious,  and  yet  it  is  quite  natural. 
He  is  handsome  and  he  is  charming." 

"And  he's  good,  too." 

"Why  not?  He  does  not  look  evil.  I  thought  of 
him  as  a  Mercury." 

"The  messenger  of  the  gods — yes,  he  is  like  that." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  as  if  her  happiness  and 
longing  for  sympathy  in  it  impelled  her  to  draw  very 
near  to  a  human  being. 

"A  bearer  of  good  tidings — that  is  what  he  has  been 
to  me.  I  want  you  to  like  and  understand  him  so  much, 
Emile;  you  more,  far  more,  than  any  one  else." 

The  cab  was  now  in  a  steep  and  narrow  street  leading 
down  from  the  Strand  to  the  Thames  Embankment — 
a  street  that  was  obscure  and  that  looked  sad  and  evil 
by  night.  Artois  glanced  out  at  it,  and  Hermione,  see- 
ing that  he  did  so,  followed  his  eyes.  They  saw  a  man 
and  a  woman  quarrelling  under  a  gas-lamp.  The  wom- 
an was  cursing  and  crying.  The  man  put  out  his  hand 
37 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

and  pushed  her  roughly.  She  fell  up  against  some  rail- 
ings, caught  hold  of  them,  turned  her  head  and  shrieked 
at  the  man,  opening  her  mouth  wide. 

"Poor  things!"  Hermione  said.  "Poor  things!  If 
we  could  only  all  be  good  to  each  other!  It  seems  as 
if  it  ought  to  be  so  simple." 

"It's  too  difficult  for  us,  nevertheless." 

"Not  for  some  of  us,  thank  God.  Many  people  have 
been  good  to  me — you  for  one,  you  most  of  all  my  friends. 
Ah,  how  blessed  it  is  to  be  out  here!" 

She  leaned  over  the  wooden  apron  of  the  cab,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hands  instinctively  as  if  to  grasp  the  space, 
the  airy  darkness  of  the  spreading  night. 

"Space  seems  to  liberate  the  soul,"  she  said.  "It's 
wrong  to  live  in  cities,  but  we  shall  have  to  a  good  deal, 
I  suppose.  Maurice  needn't  work,  but  I'm  glad  to  say 
he  does." 

"What  does  he  do?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  he's  in  his  father's  ship- 
ping business.  I'm  an  awful  idiot  at  understanding 
anything  of  that  sort,  but  I  understand  Maurice,  and 
that's  the  important  matter." 

They  were  now  on  the  Thames  Embankment,  driving 
slowly  along  the  broad  and  almost  deserted  road.  Far 
off  lights,  green,  red,  and  yellow,  shone  faintly  upon  the 
drifting  and  uneasy  waters  of  the  river  on  the  one  side; 
on  the  other  gleamed  the  lights  from  the  houses  and 
hotels,  in  which  people  were  supping  after  the  theatres. 
Artois,  who,  like  most  fine  artists,  was  extremely  sus- 
ceptible to  the  influence  of  place  and  of  the  hour,  with 
its  gift  of  light  or  darkness,  began  to  lose  in  this  larger 
atmosphere  of  mystery  and  vaguely  visible  movement 
the  hitherto  dominating  sense  of  himself,  to  regain  the 
more  valuable  and  more  mystical  sense  of  life  and  its 
strange  and  pathetic  relation  with  nature  and  the  spirit 
behind  nature,  which  often  floated  upon  him  like  a 
tide  when  he  was  creating,  but  which  he  was  accus- 
38 


"'SPACE  SEEMS  TO  LIBERATE  THE  SOUL,'  SHE  SAID" 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

tomed  to  hold  sternly  in  leash.  Now  he  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  rein  it  in.  Maurice  Delarey  and  his  business, 
Hermione,  her  understanding  of  him  and  happiness  in 
him,  Artois  himself  in  his  sharply  realized  solitude  of 
the  third  person,  melted  into  the  crowd  of  beings  who 
made  up  life,  whose  background  was  the  vast  and  in- 
finitely various  panorama  of  nature,  and  Hermi one's 
last  words,  "the  important  matter,"  seemed  for  the 
moment  false  to  him.  What  was,  what  could  be,  im- 
portant in  the  immensity  and  the  baffling  complexity 
of  existence  ? 

"Look  at  those  lights,"  he  said,  pointing  to  those 
that  gleamed  across  the  water  through  the  London 
haze  that  sometimes  makes  for  a  melancholy  beauty, 
"and  that  movement  of  the  river  in  the  night,  tremu- 
lous and  cryptic  like  our  thoughts.  Is  anything  im- 
portant?" 

"Almost  everything,  I  think,  certainly  everything  in 
us.  If  I  didn't  feel  so,  I  could  scarcely  go  on  living. 
And  you  must  really  feel  so,  too.  You  do.  I  have  your 
letters  to  prove  it.  Why,  how  often  have  I  written 
begging  you  not  to  lash  yourself  into  fury  over  the 
follies  of  men!" 

"Yes,  my  temperament  betrays  the  citadel  of  my 
brain.  That  happens  in  many." 

"You  trust  too  much  to  your  brain  and  too  little  to 
your  heart." 

"And  you  do  the  contrary,  my  friend.  You  are  too 
easily  carried  away  by  your  impulses." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  cabman  was 
driving  slowly.  She  watched  a  distant  barge  drifting, 
like  a  great  shadow,  at  the  mercy  of  the  tide.  Then  she 
turned  a  little,  looked  at  Artois's  shadowy  profile,  and 
said: 

"Don't  ever  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me  quite  frankly — 
don't  be  afraid  now.  What  is  it?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

39 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Imagine  you  are  in  Paris  sitting  down  to  write  to 
me  in  your  little  red  -  and  -  yellow  room,  the  morocco 
slipper  of  a  room." 

"And  if  it  were  the  Sicilian  grandmother?" 

He  spoke  half-lightly,  as  if  he  were  inclined  to  laugh 
with  her  at  himself  if  she  began  to  laugh. 

But  she  said,  gravely: 

"Go  on." 

"I  have  a  feeling  to-night  that  out  of  this  happiness 
of  yours  misery  will  be  born." 

"Yes?     What  sort  of  misery?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Misery  to  myself  or  to  the  sharer  of  my  happiness?" 

"To  you." 

"That  was  why  you  spoke  of  the  garden  of  paradise 
and  the  deadly  swamp  ?" 

"I  think  it  must  have  been." 

"Well?" 

"I  love  the  South.  You  know  that.  But  I  distrust 
what  I  love,  and  I  see  the  South  in  him." 

"The  grace,  the  charm,  the  enticement  of  the  South." 

"All  that,  certainly.  You  said  he  had  reverence. 
Probably  he  has,  but  has  he  faithfulness?" 

"Oh,  Emile!" 

"You  told  me  to  be  frank." 

"And  I  wish  you  to  be.     Go  on,  say  everything." 

"I've  only  seen  Delarey  once,  and  I'll  confess  that  I 
came  prepared  to  see  faults  as  clearly  as,  perhaps  more 
clearly  than,  virtues.  I  don't  pretend  to  read  character 
at  a  glance.  Only  fools  can  do  that — I  am  relying  on 
their  frequent  assertion  that  they  can.  He  strikes  me 
as  a  man  of  great  charm,  with  an  unusual  faculty  of 
admiration  for  the  gifts  of  others  and  a  modest  estimate 
of  himself.  I  believe  he's  sincere." 

"He  is,  through  and  through." 

"  I  think  so — now.  But  does  he  know  his  own  blood  ? 
Our  blood  governs  us  when  the  time  comes.  He  is 
40 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

modest  about  his  intellect.  I  think  it  quick,  but  I 
doubt  its  being  strong  enough  to  prove  a  good  restrain- 
ing influence." 

"Against  what?" 

"The  possible  call  of  the  blood  that  he  doesn't  under- 
stand." 

"You  speak  almost  as  if  he  were  a  child,"  Hermione 
said.  "He's  much  younger  than  I  am,  but  he's  twenty- 
four." 

"  He  is  very  young  looking,  and  you  are  at  least  twenty 
years  ahead  of  him  in  all  essentials.  Don't  you  feel  it  ?" 

"I  suppose — yes,  I  do." 

"Mercury — he  should  be  mercurial." 

"He  is.  That's  partly  why  I  love  him,  perhaps.  He 
is  full  of  swiftness." 

"So  is  the  butterfly  when  it  comes  out  into  the  sun." 

"Emile,  forgive  me,  but  sometimes  you  seem  to  me 
deliberately  to  lie  down  and  roll  in  pessimism  rather 
as  a  horse — " 

"Why  not  say  an  ass?" 

She  laughed. 

"An  ass,  then,  my  dear,  lies  down  sometimes  and  rolls 
in  dust.  I  think  you  are  doing  it  to-night.  I  think 
you  were  preparing  to  do  it  this  afternoon.  Perhaps  it 
is  the  effect  of  London  upon  you?" 

"London — by-the-way,  where  are  you  going  for  your 
honeymoon?  I  am  sure  you  know,  though  Monsieur 
Delarey  may  not." 

"Why  are  you  sure?" 

"Your  face  to-night  when  I  asked  if  it  was  to  be 
Italian." 

She  laid  her  hand  again  upon  his  arm  and  spoke 
eagerly,  forgetting  in  a  moment  his  pessimism  and  the 
little  cloud  it  had  brought  across  her  happiness. 

"You're  right;  I've  decided." 

"  Italy — and  hotels  ?" 

"No,  a  thousand  times  no!" 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Where  then?" 

"Sicily,  and  my  peasant's  cottage." 

"The  cottage  on  Monte  Amato  where  you  spent  a 
summer  four  or  five  years  ago  contemplating  Etna?" 

"Yes.  I've  not  said  a  word  to  Maurice,  but  I've  taken 
it  again.  All  the  little  furniture  I  had  —  beds,  straw 
chairs,  folding-tables — is  stored  in  a  big  room  in  the 
village  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Gaspare,  the 
Sicilian  boy  who  was  my  servant,  will  superintend  the 
carrying  up  of  it  on  women's  heads — his  dear  old  grand- 
mother takes  the  heaviest  things,  arm-chairs  and  so  on 
— and  it  will  all  be  got  ready  in  no  time.  I'm  having 
the  house  whitewashed  again,  and  the  shutters  painted, 
and  the  stone  vases  on  the  terrace  will  be  filled  with 
scarlet  geraniums,  and  —  oh,  Emile,  I  shall  hear  the 
piping  of  the  shepherds  in  the  ravine  at  twilight  again 
with  him,  and  see  the  boys  dance  the  tarantella  under 
the  moon  again  with  him,  and — and — " 

She  stopped  with  a  break  in  her  voice. 

"Put  away  your  pessimism,  dear  Emile,"  she  con- 
tinued, after  a  moment.  "Tell  me  you  think  we  shall 
be  happy  in  our  garden  of  paradise — tell  me  that!" 

But  he  only  said,  even  more  gravely: 

"So  you're  taking  him  to  the  real  South?" 

"  Yes,  to  the  blue  and  the  genuine  gold,  and  the  quiv- 
ering heat,  and  the  balmy  nights  when  Etna  sends  up 
its  plume  of  ivory  smoke  to  the  moon.  He's  got  the 
south  in  his  blood.  Well,  he  shall  see  the  south  first 
with  me,  and  he  shall  love  it  as  I  love  it." 

He  said  nothing.  No  spark  of  her  enthusiasm  called 
forth  a  spark  from  him.  And  now  she  saw  that,  and 
said  again: 

"London  is  making  you  horrible  to-night.  You  are 
doing  London  and  yourself  an  injustice,  and  Maurice, 
too." 

"It's  very  possible,"  he  replied.  "But — I  can  say 
it  to  you — I  have  a  certain  gift  of — shall  I  call  it  divina- 
42 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

tion  ? — where  men  and  women  are  concerned.  It  is  not 
merely  that  I  am  observant  of  what  is,  but  that  I  can 
often  instinctively  feel  that  which  must  be  inevitably 
produced  by  what  is.  Very  few  people  can  read  the 
future  in  the  present.  I  often  can,  almost  as  clearly 
as  I  can  read  the  present.  Even  pessimism,  accentuated 
by  the  influence  of  the  Infernal  City,  may  contain  some 
grains  of  truth." 

"What  do  you  see  for  us,  Emile?  Don't  you  think 
we  shall  be  happy  together,  then  ?  Don't  you  think 
that  we  are  suited  to  be  happy  together?" 

When  she  asked  Artois  this  direct  question  he  was 
suddenly  aware  of  a  vagueness  brooding  in  his  mind, 
and  knew  that  he  had  no  definite  answer  to  make. 

"  I  see  nothing,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  I  know  nothing. 
It  may  be  London.  It  may  be  my  own  egoism." 

And  then  he  suddenly  explained  himself  to  Hermione 
with  the  extraordinary  frankness  of  which  he  was  only 
capable  when  he  was  with  her,  or  was  writing  to  her. 

"  I  am  the  dog  in  the  manger,"  he  concluded.  "  Don't 
let  my  growling  distress  you.  Your  happiness  has 
made  me  envious." 

"I'll  never  believe  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "You  are  too 
good  a  friend  and  too  great  a  man  for  that.  Why  can't 
you  be  happy,  too?  Why  can't  you  find  some  one?" 

"Married  life  wouldn't  suit  me.  I  dislike  lonelinesss 
yet  I  couldn't  do  without  it.  In  it  I  find  my  liberty  as 
an  artist." 

"Sometimes  I  think  it  must  be  a  curse  to  be  an  ar- 
tist, and  yet  I  have  often  longed  to  be  one." 

"Why  have  you  never  tried  to  be  one?" 

"I  hardly  know.  Perhaps  in  my  inmost  being  I  feel 
I  never  could  be.  I  am  too  impulsive,  too  unrestrained, 
too  shapeless  in  mind.  If  I  wrote  a  book  it  might  be 
interesting,  human,  heart-felt,  true  to  life,  I  hope,  not 
stupid,  I  believe;  but  it  would  be  a  chaos.  You — how 
it  would  shock  your  critical  mind!  I  could  never  select 
4  43 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

and  prune  and  blend  and  graft.  I  should  have  to 
throw  my  mind  and  heart  down  on  the  paper  and  just 
leave  them  there." 

"If  you  did  that  you  might  produce  a  human  docu- 
ment that  would  live  almost  as  long  as  literature,  that 
even  just  criticism  would  be  powerless  to  destroy." 

"I  shall  never  write  that  book,  but  I  dare  say  I  shall 
live  it." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  will  live  it,  perhaps  with 
Monsieur  Delarcy." 

And  he  smiled. 

"When  is  the  wedding  to  be?" 

"In  January,  I  think." 

"Ah!  When  you  are  in  your  garden  of  paradise  I 
shall  not  be  very  far  off — just  across  your  blue  sea  on 
the  African  shore." 

"Why,  where  are  you  going,  Emile?" 

"I  shall  spend  the  spring  at  the  sacred  city  of  Kair- 
ouan,  among  the  pilgrims  and  the  mosques,  making 
some  studies,  taking  some  notes." 

"For  a  book?     Come  over  to  Sicily  and  see  us." 

"I  don't  think  you  will  want  me  there." 

The  trap  in  the  roof  was  opened,  and  a  beery  eye, 
with  a  luscious  smile  in  it,  peered  down  upon  them. 

"'Ad  enough  of  the  river,  sir?" 

"Comment?"  said  Artois. 

"We'd  better  go  home,  I  suppose,"  Hermione  said. 

She  gave  her  address  to  the  cabman,  and  they  drove 
in  silence  to  Eaton  Place. 


Ill 

LUCREZIA  GABBI  came  out  onto  the  terrace  of  the 
Casa  del  Prete  on  Monte  Amato,  shaded  her  eyes  with 
her  brown  hands,  and  gazed  down  across  the  ravine 
over  the  olive-trees  and  the  vines  to  the  mountain-side 
opposite,  along  which,  among  rocks  and  Barbary  figs, 
wound  a  tiny  track  trodden  by  the  few  contadini  whose 
stone  cottages,  some  of  them  scarcely  more  than  huts, 
were  scattered  here  and  there  upon  the  surrounding 
heights  that  looked  towards  Etna  and  the  sea.  Lu- 
crezia  was  dressed  in  her  best.  She  wore  a  dark-stuff 
gown  covered  in  the  front  by  a  long  blue  -  and  -  white 
apron.  Although  really  happiest  in  her  mind  when 
her  feet  were  bare,  she  had  donned  a  pair  of  white 
stockings  and  low  slippers,  and  over  her  thick,  dark 
hair  was  tied  a  handkerchief  gay  with  a  pattern  of 
brilliant  yellow  flowers  on  a  white  ground.  This  was 
a  present  from  Gaspare  bought  at  the  town  of  Cattaro 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  and  worn  now  for  the 
first  time  in  honor  of  a  great  occasion. 

To-day  Lucrezia  was  in  the  service  of  distinguished 
forestieri,  and  she  was  gazing  now  across  the  ravine 
straining  her  eyes  to  see  a  procession  winding  up  from 
the  sea:  donkeys  laden  with  luggage,  and  her  new 
padrone  and  padrona  pioneered  by  the  radiant  Gas- 
pare towards  their  mountain  home.  It  was  a  good  day 
for  their  arrival.  Nobody  could  deny  that.  Even 
Lucrezia,  who  was  accustomed  to  fine  weather,  having 
lived  all  her  life  in  Sicily,  was  struck  to  a  certain  blink- 
ing admiration  as  she  stepped  out  on  to  the  terrace, 
45 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

and  murmured  to  herself  and  a  cat  which  was  basking 
on  the  stone  seat  that  faced  the  cottage  between  broken 
columns,  round  which  roses  twined: 

"  Che  tempo  fa  oggi!  Santa  Madonna,  che  bel  tempo!" 
On  this  morning  of  February  the  clearness  of  the 
atmosphere  was  in  truth  almost  African.  Under  the 
cloudless  sky  every  detail  of  the  great  view  from  the 
terrace  stood  out  with  a  magical  distinctness.  The  lines 
of  the  mountains  were  sharply  defined  against  the  pro- 
found blue.  The  forms  of  the  gray  rocks  scattered 
upon  their  slopes,  of  the  peasants'  houses,  of  the  olive 
and  oak  trees  which  grew  thickly  on  the  left  flank  of 
Monte  Amato  below  the  priest's  house,  showed  them- 
selves in  the  sunshine  with  the  bold  frankness  which  is 
part  of  the  glory  of  all  things  in  the  south.  The  figures 
of  stationary  or  moving  goatherds  and  laborers,  watch- 
ing their  flocks  or  toiling  among  the  vineyards  and  the 
orchards,  were  relieved  against  the  face  of  nature  in 
the  shimmer  of  the  glad  gold  in  this  Eden,  with  a  min- 
gling of  delicacy  and  significance  which  had  in  it  some- 
thing ethereal  and  mysterious,  a  hint  of  fairy-land.  Far 
off,  rising  calmly  in  an  immense  slope,  a  slope  that 
was  classical  in  its  dignity,  profound  in  its  sobriety, 
remote,  yet  neither  cold  nor  sad,  Etna  soared  towards 
the  heaven,  sending  from  its  summit,  on  which  the 
snows  still  lingered,  a  steady  plume  of  ivory  smoke. 
In  the  nearer  foreground,  upon  a  jagged  crest  of  beet- 
ling rock,  the  ruins  of  a  Saracenic  castle  dominated  a 
huddled  village,  whose  houses  seemed  to  cling  franti- 
cally to  the  cliff,  as  if  each  one  were  in  fear  of  being 
separated  from  its  brethren  and  tossed  into  the  sea. 
And  far  below  that  sea  spread  forth  its  waveless,  silent 
wonder  to  a  horizon-line  so  distant  that  the  eyes  which 
looked  upon  it  could  scarcely  distinguish  sea  from  sky 
— a  line  which  surely  united  not  divided  two  shades  of 
flawless  blue,  linking  them  in  a  brotherhood  which 
should  be  everlasting.  Few  sounds,  and  these  but 
46 


THE    CALL  OF   THE    BLOOD 

slight  ones,  stirred  in  the  breast  of  the  ardent  silence; 
some  little  notes  of  birds,  fragmentary  and  wandering, 
wayward  as  pilgrims  who  had  forgotten  to  what  shrine 
they  bent  their  steps,  some  little  notes  of  bells  swing- 
ing beneath  the  tufted  chins  of  goats,  the  wail  of  a 
woman's  song,  old  in  its  quiet  melancholy,  Oriental  in 
its  strange  irregularity  of  rhythm,  and  the  careless 
twitter  of  a  tarantella,  played  upon  a  reed-flute  by  a 
secluded  shepherd-boy  beneath  the  bending  silver  green 
of  tressy  olives  beside  a  tiny  stream. 

Lucrezia  was  accustomed  to  it  all.  She  had  been  born 
beside  that  sea.  Etna  had  looked  down  upon  her  as  she 
sucked  and  cried,  toddled  and  played,  grew  to  a  lusty 
girlhood,  and  on  into  young  womanhood  with  its  gayety 
and  unreason,  its  work  and  hopes  and  dreams.  That 
Oriental  song — she  had  sung  it  often  on  the  mountain- 
sides, as  she  set  her  bare,  brown  feet  on  the  warm  stones, 
and  lifted  her  head  with  a  native  pride  beneath  its 
burdening  pannier  or  its  jar  of  water  from  the  well. 
And  she  had  many  a  time  danced  to  the  tarantella  that 
the  shepherd  -  boy  was  fluting,  clapping  her  strong 
hands  and  swinging  her  broad  hips,  while  the  great 
rings  in  her  ears  shook  to  and  fro,  and  her  whole  healthy 
body  quivered  to  the  spirit  of  the  tune.  She  knew  it 
all.  It  was  and  had  always  been  part  of  her  life. 

Hermione's  garden  of  paradise  generally  seemed 
homely  enough  to  Lucrezia.  Yet  to-day,  perhaps  be- 
cause she  was  dressed  in  her  best  on  a  day  that  was 
not  a  festa,  and  wore  a  silver  chain  with  a  coral  charm 
on  it,  and  had  shoes  on  her  feet,  there  seemed  to  her 
a  newness,  almost  a  strangeness  in  the  wideness  and 
the  silence,  in  the  sunshine  and  the  music,  something 
that  made  her  breathe  out  a  sigh,  and  stare  with  almost 
wondering  eyes  on  Etna  and  the  sea.  She  soon  lost 
her  vague  sensation  that  her  life  lay,  perhaps,  in  a 
home  of  magic,  however,  when  she  looked  again  at  the 
mule  track  which  wound  upward  from  the  distant  town, 
47 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

in  which  the  train  from  Messina  must  by  this  time  have 
deposited  her  forestieri,  and  began  to  think  more  nat- 
urally of  the  days  that  lay  before  her,  of  her  novel  and 
important  duties,  and  of  the  unusual  sums  of  money 
that  her  activities  were  to  earn  her. 

Gaspare,  who,  as  major-domo,  had  chosen  her  im- 
periously for  his  assistant  and  underling  in  the  house 
of  the  priest,  had  informed  her  that  she  was  to  receive 
twenty-five  lire  a  month  for  her  services,  besides  food 
and  lodging,  and  plenty  of  the  good,  red  wine  of  Amato. 
To  Lucrezia  such  wages  seemed  prodigal.  She  had 
never  yet  earned  more  than  the  half  of  them.  But  it 
was  not  only  this  prospect  of  riches  which  now  moved 
and  excited  her. 

She  was  to  live  in  a  splendidly  furnished  house  with 
wealthy  and  distinguished  people;  she  was  to  sleep  in 
a  room  all  to  herself,  in  a  bed  that  no  one  had  a  right 
to  except  herself.  This  was  an  experience  that  in  her 
most  sanguine  moments  she  had  never  anticipated. 
All  her  life  had  been  passed  en  famille  in  the  village  of 
Marechiaro,  which  lay  on  a  table -land  at  the  foot  of 
Monte  Amato,  half-way  down  to  the  sea.  The  Gabbis 
were  numerous,  and  they  all  lived  in  one  room,  to  which 
cats,  hens,  and  turkeys  resorted  with  much  freedom 
and  in  considerable  numbers.  Lucrezia  had  never 
known,  perhaps  had  never  desired,  a  moment  of  privacy, 
but  now  she  began  to  awake  to  the  fact  that  privacy 
and  daintiness  and  pretty  furniture  were  very  interest- 
ing, and  even  touching,  as  well  as  very  phenomenal 
additions  to  a  young  woman's  existence.  What  could 
the  people  who  had  the  power  to  provide  them  be  like  ? 
She  scanned  the  mule-track  with  growing  eagerness, 
but  the  procession  did  not  appear.  She  saw  only  an 
old  contadino  in  a  long  woollen  cap  riding  slowly  into 
the  recesses  of  the  hills  on  a  donkey,  and  a  small  boy 
leading  his  goats  to  pasture.  The  train  must  have 
been  late.  She  turned  round  from  the  view  and  ex- 
48 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

amined  her  new  home  once  more.  Already  she  knew  it 
by  heart,  yet  the  wonder  of  it  still  encompassed  her  spirit. 
Hermione's  cottage,  the  eyrie  to  which  she  was  bring- 
ing Maurice  Delarey,  was  only  a  cottage,  although  to  Lu- 
crezia  it  seemed  almost  a  palace.  It  was  whitewashed, 
with  a  sloping  roof  of  tiles,  and  windows  with  green 
Venetian  shutters.  Although  it  now  belonged  to  a  con- 
tadino,  it  had  originally  been  built  by  a  priest,  who 
had  possessed  vineyards  on  the  mountain-side,  and  who 
wished  to  have  a  home  to  which  he  could  escape  from 
the  town  where  he  lived  when  the  burning  heats  of  the 
summer  set  in.  Above  his  vineyards,  some  hundreds 
of  yards  from  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  and  close 
to  a  grove  of  oaks  and  olive-trees,  which  grew  among 
a  turmoil  of  mighty  boulders,  he  had  terraced  out  the 
slope  and  set  his  country  home.  At  the  edge  of  the 
rough  path  which  led  to  the  cottage  from  the  ravine 
below  was  a  ruined  Norman  arch.  This  served  as  a 
portal  of  entrance.  Between  it  and  the  cottage  was 
a  well  surrounded  by  crumbling  walls,  with  stone  seats 
built  into  them.  Passing  that,  one  came  at  once  to  the 
terrace  of  earth,  fronted  by  a  low  wall  with  narrow 
seats  covered  with  white  tiles,  and  divided  by  broken 
columns  that  edged  the  ravine  and  commanded  the 
great  view  on  which  Lucrezia  had  been  gazing.  On  the 
wall  of  this  terrace  were  stone  vases,  in  which  scarlet 
geraniums  were  growing.  Red  roses  twined  around  the 
columns,  and,  beneath,  the  steep  side  of  the  ravine  was 
clothed  with  a  tangle  of  vegetation,  olive  and  peach, 
pear  and  apple  trees.  Behind  the  cottage  rose  the 
bare  mountain-side,  covered  with  loose  stones  and  rocks, 
among  which  in  every  available  interstice  the  diligent 
peasants  had  sown  corn  and  barley.  Here  and  there 
upon  the  mountains  distant  cottages  were  visible,  but 
on  Monte  Amato  Hermione's  was  the  last,  the  most 
intrepid.  None  other  ventured  to  cling  to  the  warm 
earth  so  high  above  the  sea  and  in  a  place  so  solitary. 
49 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

That  was  why  Hermione  loved  it,  because  it  was  near 
the  sky  and  very  far  away. 

Now,  after  an  earnest,  ruminating  glance  at  the  cot- 
tage, Lucrezia  walked  across  the  terrace  and  reverently 
entered  it  by  a  door  which  opened  onto  a  flight  of  three 
steps  leading  down  to  the  terrace.  Already  she  knew 
the  interior  by  heart,  but  she  had  not  lost  her  awe  of 
it,  her  sense  almost  of  being  in  a  church  when  she  stood 
among  the  furniture,  the  hangings,  and  the  pictures 
which  she  had  helped  to  arrange  under  Gaspare's  or- 
ders. The  room  she  now  stood  in  was  the  parlor  of 
the  cottage,  serving  as  dining-room,  drawing-room, 
boudoir,  and  den.  Although  it  must  be  put  to  so 
many  purposes,  it  was  only  a  small,  square  chamber, 
and  very  simply  furnished.  The  walls,  like  all  the 
walls  of  the  cottage  inside  and  out,  were  whitewashed. 
On  the  floor  was  a  carpet  that  had  been  woven  in  Kair- 
ouan,  the  sacred  African  town  where  Artois  was  now 
staying  and  making  notes  for  his  new  book.  It  was 
thick  and  rough,  and  many-colored  almost  as  Joseph's 
coat;  brilliant  but  not  garish,  for  the  African  has  a 
strange  art  of  making  colors  friends  instead  of  enemies, 
of  blending  them  into  harmonies  that  are  gay  yet 
touched  with  peace.  On  the  walls  hung  a  few  repro- 
ductions of  fine  pictures:  an  old  woman  of  Rembrandt, 
in  whose  wrinkled  face  and  glittering  dark  eyes  the 
past  pleasures  and  past  sorrows  of  life  seemed  tenderly, 
pensively  united,  mellowed  by  the  years  into  a  soft 
bloom,  a  quiet  beauty;  an  allegory  of  Watts,  fierce  with 
inspiration  like  fire  mounting  up  to  an  opening  heaven ; 
a  landscape  of  Frederick  Walker's,  the  romance  of  har- 
vest in  an  autumn  land;  Burne  -  Jones's  "The  Mill," 
and  a  copy  in  oils  of  a  knight  of  Gustave  Moreau's,  rid- 
ing in  armor  over  the  summit  of  a  hill  into  an  unseen 
country  of  errantry,  some  fairy-land  forlorn.  There  was, 
too,  an  old  Venetian  mirror  in  a  curiously  twisted  golden 
frame. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

At  the  two  small  windows  on  either  side  of  the  door, 
which  was  half  glass,  half  white  -  painted  wood,  were 
thin  curtains  of  pale  gray -blue  and  white,  bought  in 
the  bazaars  of  Tunis.  For  furniture  there  were  a  fold- 
ing-table of  brown,  polished  wood,  a  large  divan  with 
many  cushions,  two  deck-chairs  of  the  telescope  species, 
that  can  be  made  long  or  short  at  will,  a  writing-table, 
a  cottage  piano,  and  four  round  wicker  chairs  with 
arms.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  tall  clock 
with  a  burnished  copper  face,  and  in  another  a  cup- 
board containing  glass  and  china.  A  door  at  the  back, 
which  led  into  the  kitchen,  was  covered  with  an  Ori- 
ental portiere.  On  the  writing-table,  and  on  some  dwarf 
bookcases  already  filled  with  books  left  behind  by  Her- 
mione  on  her  last  visit  to  Sicily,  stood  rough  jars  of 
blue,  yellow,  and  white  pottery,  filled  with  roses  and 
geraniums  arranged  by  Gaspare.  To  the  left  of  the 
room,  as  Lucrezia  faced  it,  was  a  door  leading  into  the 
bedroom  of  the  master  and  mistress. 

After  a  long  moment  of  admiring  contemplation, 
Lucrezia  went  into  this  bedroom,  in  which  she  was 
specially  interested,  as  it  was  to  be  her  special  care. 
All  was  white  here,  walls,  ceiling,  wooden  beds,  tables, 
the  toilet  service,  the  bookcases.  For  there  were  books 
here,  too,  books  which  Lucrezia  examined  with  an  aw- 
ful wonder,  not  knowing  how  to  read.  In  the  window- 
seat  were  white  cushions.  On  the  chest  of  drawers  were 
more  red  roses  and  geraniums.  It  was  a  virginal  room, 
into  which  the  bright,  golden  sunbeams  stole  under  the 
striped  awning  outside  the  low  window  with  surely  a 
hesitating  modesty,  as  if  afraid  to  find  themselves  in- 
truders. The  whiteness,  the  intense  quietness  of  the 
room,  through  whose  window  could  be  seen  a  space  of 
far-off  sea,  a  space  of  mountain-flank,  and,  when  one 
came  near  to  it,  and  the  awning  was  drawn  up,  the 
snowy  cone  of  Etna,  struck  now  to  the  soul  of  Lucrezia 
a  sense  of  half-puzzled  peace.  Her  large  eyes  opened 
5* 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

wider,  and  she  laid  her  hands  on  her  hips  and  fell  into 
a  sort  of  dream  as  she  stood  there,  hearing  only  the 
faint  and  regular  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  sitting- 
room.  She  was  well  accustomed  to  the  silence  of  the 
mountain  world  and  never  heeded  it,  but  peace  within 
four  walls  was  almost  unknown  to  her.  Here  no  hens 
fluttered,  no  turkeys  went  to  and  fro  elongating  their 
necks,  no  children  played  and  squalled,  no  women 
argued  and  gossiped,  quarrelled  and  worked,  no  men 
tramped  in  and  out,  grumbled  and  spat.  A  perfectly 
clean  and  perfectly  peaceful  room — it  was  marvellous, 
it  was — she  sighed  again.  What  must  it  be  like  to  be 
gentlefolk,  to  have  the  money  to  buy  calm  and  cleanli- 
ness? 

Suddenly  she  moved,  took  her  hands  from  her  hips, 
settled  her  yellow  handkerchief,  and  smiled.  The  si- 
lence had  been  broken  by  a  sound  all  true  Sicilians 
love,  the  buzz  and  the  drowsy  wail  of  the  ceramella, 
the  bagpipes  which  the  shepherds  play  as  they  come 
down  from  the  hills  to  the  villages  when  the  festival  of 
the  Natale  is  approaching.  It  was  as  yet  very  faint 
and  distant,  coming  from  the  mountain  -  side  behind 
the  cottage,  but  Lucrezia  knew  the  tune.  It  was  part 
of  her  existence,  part  of  Etna,  the  olive  groves,  the 
vineyards,  and  the  sea,  part  of  that  old,  old  Sicily  which 
dwells  in  the  blood  and  shines  in  the  eyes,  and  is  alive 
in  the  songs  and  the  dances  of  these  children  of  the  sun, 
and  of  legends  and  of  mingled  races  from  many  lands. 
It  was  the  "Pastorale,"  and  she  knew  who  was  playing 
it  —  Sebastiano,  the  shepherd,  who  had  lived  with  the 
brigands  in  the  forests  that  look  down  upon  the  Isles 
of  Lipan,  who  now  kept  his  father's  goats  among  the 
rocks,  and  knew  every  stone  and  every  cave  on  Etna, 
and  who  had  a  chest  and  arms  of  iron,  and  legs  that  no 
climbing  could  fatigue,  and  whose  great,  brown  fingers, 
that  could  break  a  man's  wrist,  drew  such  delicate  tones 
from  the  reed  pipe  that,  when  he  played  it,  even  the  old 
52 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

man's  thoughts  were  turned  to  dancing  and  the  old 
woman's  to  love.  But  now  he  was  being  important, 
he  was  playing  the  ceramella,  into  which  no  shepherd 
could  pour  such  a  volume  of  breath  as  he,  from  which 
none  could  bring  such  a  volume  of  warm  and  lusty 
music.  It  was  Sebastiano  coming  down  from  the  top 
of  Monte  Amato  to  welcome  the  forestieri. 

The  music  grew  louder,  and  presently  a  dog  barked 
outside  on  the  terrace.  Lucrezia  ran  to  the  window. 
A  great  white-and -yellow,  blunt-faced,  pale -eyed  dog, 
his  neck  surrounded  by  a  spiked  collar,  stood  there 
sniffing  and  looking  savage,  his  feathery  tail  cocked  up 
pugnaciously  over  his  back. 

"Sebastiano!"  called  Lucrezia,  leaning  out  of  the 
window  under  the  awning — "Sebastiano!" 

Then  she  drew  back  laughing,  and  squatted  down  on 
the  floor,  concealed  by  the  window-seat.  The  sound 
of  the  pipes  increased  till  their  rough  drone  seemed  to 
be  in  the  room,  bidding  a  rustic  defiance  to  its  white- 
ness and  its  silence.  Still  squatting  on  the  floor,  Lu- 
crezia called  out  once  more: 

"Sebastiano!" 

Abruptly  the  tune  ceased  and  the  silence  returned, 
emphasized  by  the  vanished  music.  Lucrezia  scarcely 
breathed.  Her  face  was  flushed,  for  she  was  struggling 
against  an  impulse  to  laugh,  which  almost  overmastered 
her.  After  a  minute  she  heard  the  dog's  short  bark 
again,  then  a  man's  foot  shifting  on  the  terrace,  then 
suddenly  a  noise  of  breathing  above  her  head  close  to 
her  hair.  With  a  little  scream  she  shrank  back  and 
looked  up.  A  man's  face  was  gazing  down  at  her.  It 
was  a  very  brown  and  very  masculine  face,  roughened 
by  wind  and  toughened  by  sun,  with  keen,  steady,  al- 
most insolent  eyes,  black  and  shining,  stiff,  black  hair, 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  crimped,  a  mustache 
sprouting  above  a  wide,  slightly  animal  mouth  full  of 
splendid  teeth,  and  a  square,  brutal,  but  very  manly 
S3 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

chin.  On  the  head  was  a  Sicilian  cap,  long  and  hang- 
ing down  at  the  left  side.  There  were  ear-rings  in  the 
man's  large,  well-shaped  ears,  and  over  the  window- 
ledge  protruded  the  swollen  bladder,  like  a  dead,  bloated 
monster,  from  which  he  had  been  drawing  his  antique 
tune. 

He  stared  down  at  Lucrezia  with  a  half-contemptuous 
humor,  and  she  up  at  him  with  a  wide-eyed,  uncon- 
cealed adoration.  Then  he  looked  curiously  round  the 
room,  with  a  sharp  intelligence  that  took  in  every  de- 
tail in  a  moment. 

"Per  Dio!"  he  ejaculated.     "Per  Dio!" 

He  looked  at  Lucrezia,  folded  his  brawny  arms  on  the 
window-sill,  and  said: 

"They've  got  plenty  of  soldi." 

Lucrezia  nodded,  not  without  personal  pride. 

"Gaspare  says — 

"Oh,  I  know  as  much  as  Gaspare,"  interrupted  Se- 
bastiano,  brusquely.  "The  signora  is  my  friend.  When 
she  was  here  before  I  saw  her  many  times.  But  for  me 
she  would  never  have  taken  the  Casa  del  Prete." 

"Why  was  that?"  asked  Lucrezia,  with  reverence. 

"They  told  her  in  Marechiaro  that  it  was  not  safe  for 
a  lady  to  live  up  here  alone,  that  when  the  night  came 
no  one  could  tell  what  would  happen." 

"  B  ut ,  G  aspare — ' ' 

"Does  Gaspare  know  every  grotto  on  Etna?  Has 
Gaspare  lived  eight  years  with  the  briganti?  And  the 
Mafia — has  Gaspare — " 

He  paused,  laughed,  pulled  his  mustache,  and  added: 

"  If  the  signora  had  not  been  assured  of  my  protection 
she  would  never  have  come  up  here." 

"But  now  she  has  a  husband." 

"Yes." 

He  glanced  again  round  the  room. 

"One  can  see  that.  Per  Dio,  it  is  like  the  snow  on 
the  top  of  Etna." 

54 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

Lucrezia  got  up  actively  from  the  floor  and  came 
close  to  Sebastiano. 

"What  is  the  padrona  like,  Sebastiano?"  she  asked. 
"I  have  seen  her,  but  I  have  never  spoken  to  her." 

"She  is  simpatica — she  will  do  you  no  harm." 

"And  is  she  generous?" 

"  Ready  to  give  soldi  to  every  one  who  is  in  trouble. 
But  if  you  once  deceive  her  she  will  never  look  at  you 
again." 

"Then  I  will  not  deceive  her,"  said  Lucrezia,  knit- 
ting her  brows. 

"Better  not.  She  is  not  like  us.  She  thinks  to  tell 
a  lie  is  a  sin  against  the  Madonna,  I  believe." 

"  But  then  what  will  the  padrone  do  ?"  asked  Lucrezia, 
innocently. 

"Tell  his  woman  the  truth,  like  all  husbands,"  re- 
plied Sebastiano,  with  a  broadly  satirical  grin.  "As 
your  man  will  some  day,  Lucrezia  mia.  All  husbands 
are  good  and  faithful.  Don't  you  know  that  ?" 

"Macche!" 

She  laughed  loudly,  with  an  incredulity  quite  free 
from  bitterness. 

"Men  are  not  like  us,"  she  added.  "They  tell  us 
whatever  they  please,  and  do  always  whatever  they  like. 
We  must  sit  in  the  doorway  and  keep  our  back  to  the 
street  for  fear  a  man  should  smile  at  us,  and  they  can 
stay  out  all  night,  and  come  back  in  the  morning,  and 
say  they've  been  fishing  at  Isola  Bella,  or  sleeping  out 
to  guard  the  vines,  and  we've  got  to  say,  '  Si,  Salvatore!' 
or  'Si,  Guido!'  when  we  know  very  well — " 

"What,  Lucrezia?" 

She  looked  into  his  twinkling  eyes  and  reddened 
slightly,  sticking  out  her  under  lip. 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you." 

"You  have  no  business  to  know." 

"And  how  can  I  help — they're  coming!" 

Sebastiano 's  dog  had  barked  again  on  the  terrace. 
55 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

Sebastiano  lifted  the  ceramalla  quickly  from  the  window- 
sill  and  turned  round,  while  Lucrezia  darted  out  through 
the  door,  across  the  sitting  -  room,  and  out  onto  the 
terrace. 

"Are  they  there,  Sebastiano?     Are  they  there?" 

He  stood  by  the  terrace  wall,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hand. 

"Ecco!"  he  said,  pointing  across  the  ravine. 

Far  off,  winding  up  from  the  sea  slowly  among  the 
rocks  and  the  olive-trees,  was  a  procession  of  donkeys, 
faintly  relieved  in  the  brilliant  sunshine  against  the 
mountain-side. 

"One,"  counted  Sebastiano,  "two,  three,  four — there 
are  four.  The  signore  is  walking,  the  signora  is  riding. 
Whose  donkeys  have  they  got?  Gaspare's  father's,  of 
course.  I  told  Gaspare  to  take  Ciccio's,  and — it  is  too 
far  to  see,  but  I'll  soon  make  them  hear  me.  The  sig- 
nora loves  the  "  Pastorale."  She  says  there  is  all  Sicily 
in  it.  She  loves  it  more  than  the  tarantella,  for  she  is 
good,  Lucrezia — don't  forget  that — though  she  is  not 
a  Catholic,  and  perhaps  it  makes  her  think  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Bambino  and  of  the  Madonna.  Ah!  She 
will  smile  now  and  clap  her  hands  when  she  hears." 

He  put  the  pipe  to  his  lips,  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  and 
began  to  play  the  "Pastorale  "  with  all  his  might,  while 
Lucrezia  listened,  staring  across  the  ravine  at  the  creep- 
ing donkey,  which  was  bearing  Hermione  upward  to  her 
garden  of  paradise  near  the  sky. 


IV 

"AND  then,  signora,  I  said  to  Lucrezia,  'the  padrona 
loves  Zampaglione,  and  you  must  be  sure  to — 

"Wait,  Gaspare!  I  thought  I  heard—  Yes,  it  is,  it 
is!  Hush!  Maurice — listen!" 

Hermione  pulled  up  her  donkey,  which  was  the  last 
of  the  little  procession,  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's 
arm,  and  held  her  breath,  looking  upward  across  the 
ravine  to  the  opposite  slope  where,  made  tiny  by  dis- 
tance, she  saw  the  white  line  of  the  low  terrace  wall  of 
the  Casa  del  Prete,  the  black  dots,  which  were  the  heads 
of  Sebastiano  and  Lucrezia.  The  other  donkeys  tripped 
on  among  the  stones  and  vanished,  with  their  attend- 
ant boys,  Gaspare's  friends,  round  the  angle  of  a  great 
rock,  but  Gaspare  stood  still  beside  his  padrona,  with  his 
brown  hand  on  her  donkey's  neck,  and  Maurice  Delarey, 
following  her  eyes,  looked  and  listened  like  a  statue  of 
that  Mercury  to  which  Artois  had  compared  him. 

"It's  the  'Pastorale,'"  Hermione  whispered.  "The 
'  Pastorale '!" 

Her  lips  parted.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  those 
tears  that  come  to  a  woman  in  a  moment  of  supreme 
joy  that  seems  to  wipe  out  all  the  sorrows  of  the  past. 
She  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  great  dream,  one  of  those 
rare  and  exquisite  dreams  that  sometimes  bathe  the 
human  spirit,  as  a  warm  wave  of  the  Ionian  Sea  bathes 
the  Sicilian  shore  in  the  shadow  of  an  orange  grove, 
murmuring  peace.  In  that  old  tune  of  the  "  Pastorale  " 
all  her  thoughts  of  Sicily,  and  her  knowledge  of  Sicily, 
and  her  imaginations,  and  her  deep  and  passionately 
57 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

tender  and  even  ecstatic  love  of  Sicily  seemed  folded 
and  cherished  like  birds  in  a  nest.  She  could  never  have 
explained,  she  could  only  feel  how.  In  the  melody, 
with  its  drone  bass,  the  very  history  of  the  enchanted 
island  was  surely  breathed  out.  Ulysses  stood  to  listen 
among  the  flocks  of  Polyphemus.  Empedocles  stayed 
his  feet  among  the  groves  of  Etna  to  hear  it.  And 
Persephone,  wandering  among  the  fields  of  asphodel, 
paused  with  her  white  hands  out  -  stretched  to  catch 
its  drowsy  beauty;  and  Arethusa,  turned  into  a  foun- 
tain, hushed  her  music  to  let  it  have  its  way.  And 
Hermione  heard  in  it  the  voice  of  the  Bambino,  the 
Christ-child,  to  whose  manger-cradle  the  shepherds  fol- 
lowed the  star,  and  the  voice  of  the  Madonna,  Maria 
stella  del  mare,  whom  the  peasants  love  in  Sicily  as 
the  child  loves  its  mother.  And  those  peasants  were 
in  it,  too,  people  of  the  lava  wastes  and  the  lava  ter- 
races where  the  vines  are  green  against  the  black,  peo- 
ple of  the  hazel  and  the  beech  forests,  where  the  little 
owl  cries  at  eve,  people  of  the  plains  where,  beneath  the 
yellow  lemons,  spring  the  yellow  flowers  that  are  like 
their  joyous  reflection  in  the  grasses,  people  of  the  sea, 
that  wonderful  purple  sea  in  whose  depth  of  color 
eternity  seems  caught.  The  altars  of  the  pagan  world 
were  in  it,  and  the  wayside  shrines  before  which  the 
little  lamps  are  lit  by  night  upon  the  lonely  mountain- 
sides, the  old  faith  and  the  new,  and  the  love  of  a  land 
that  lives  on  from  generation  to  generation  in  the  puls- 
ing breasts  of  men. 

And  Maurice  was  in  it,  too,  and  Hermione  and  her  love 
for  him  and  his  for  her. 

Gaspare  did  not  move.  He  loved  the  "  Pastorale  "  al- 
most without  knowing  that  he  loved  it.  It  reminded 
him  of  the  festa  of  Natale,  when,  as  a  child,  dressed  in 
a  long,  white  garment,  he  had  carried  a  blazing  torch 
of  straw  down  the  steps  of  the  church  of  San  Pancrazio 
before  the  canopy  that  sheltered  the  Bambino.  It  was 
58 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  part  of  his  life,  as  his  mother  was,  and  Tito  the  don- 
key, and  the  vineyards,  the  sea,  the  sun.  It  pleased 
him  to  hear  it,  and  to  feel  that  his  padrona  from  a  far 
country  loved  it,  and  his  isle,  his  "Paese"  in  which  it 
sounded.  So,  though  he  had  been  impatient  to  reach 
the  Casa  del  Prete  and  enjoy  the  reward  of  praise  which 
he  considered  was  his  due  for  his  forethought  and  his 
labors,  he  stood  very  still  by  Tito,  with  his  great,  brown 
eyes  fixed,  and  the  donkey  switch  drooping  in  the  hand 
that  hung  at  his  side. 

And  Hermione  for  a  moment  gave  herself  entirely  to 
her  dream. 

She  had  carried  out  the  plan  which  she  had  made. 
She  and  Maurice  Delarey  had  been  married  quietly,  early 
one  morning  in  London,  and  had  caught  the  boat-train 
at  Victoria,  and  travelled  through  to  Sicily  without 
stopping  on  the  way  to  rest.  She  wanted  to  plunge 
Maurice  in  the  south  at  once,  not  to  lead  him  slowly, 
step  by  step,  towards  it.  And  so,  after  three  nights  in  the 
train,  they  had  opened  their  eyes  to  the  quiet  sea  near 
Reggio,  to  the  clustering  houses  under  the  mountains 
of  Messina,  to  the  high-prowed  fishermen's  boats  paint- 
ed blue  and  yellow,  to  the  coast-line  which  wound  away 
from  the  straits  till  it  stole  out  to  that  almost  phantas- 
mal point  where  Siracusa  lies,  to  the  slope  of  Etna,  to 
the  orange  gardens  and  the  olives,  and  the  great,  dry 
water  courses  like  giant  highways  leading  up  into  the 
mountains.  And  from  the  train  they  had  come  up 
here  into  the  recesses  of  the  hills  to  hear  their  welcome 
of  the  "  Pastorale."  It  was  a  contrast  to  make  a  dream, 
the  roar  of  ceaseless  travel  melting  into  this  radiant 
silence,  this  inmost  heart  of  peace.  They  had  rushed 
through  great  cities  to  this  old  land  of  mountains  and 
of  legends,  and  up  there  on  the  height  from  which  the 
droning  music  dropped  to  them  through  the  sunshine 
was  their  home,  the  solitary  house  which  was  to  shelter 
their  true  marriage. 

s  59 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Delarey  was  almost  confused  by  it  all.  Half  dazed 
by  the  noise  of  the  journey,  he  was  now  half  dazed  by 
the  wonder  of  the  quiet  as  he  stood  near  Gaspare  and 
listened  to  Sebastiano's  music,  and  looked  upward  to 
the  white  terrace  wall. 

Hermione  was  to  be  his  possession  here,  in  this  strange 
and  far-off  land,  among  these  simple  peasant  people. 
So  he  thought  of  them,  not  versed  yet  in  the  complex 
Sicilian  character.  He  listened,  and  he  looked  at  Gas- 
pare. He  saw  a  boy  of  eighteen,  short  as  are  most 
Sicilians,  but  straight  as  an  arrow,  well  made,  active  as 
a  cat,  rather  of  the  Greek  than  of  the  Arab  type  so 
often  met  with  in  Sicily,  with  bold,  well-cut  features, 
wonderfully  regular  and  wonderfully  small,  square, 
white  teeth,  thick,  black  eyebrows,  and  enormous  brown 
eyes  sheltered  by  the  largest  lashes  he  had  ever  seen. 
The  very  low  forehead  was  edged  by  a  mass  of  hair 
that  had  small  gleams  of  bright  gold  here  and  there  in 
the  front,  but  that  farther  back  on  the  head  was  of  a 
brown  so  dark  as  to  look  nearly  black.  Gaspare  was 
dressed  in  a  homely  suit  of  light-colored  linen  with  no 
collar  and  a  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  showing  a  section 
of  chest  tanned  by  the  sun.  Stout  mountain  boots 
were  on  his  feet,  and  a  white  linen  hat  was  tipped  care- 
lessly to  the  back  of  his  head,  leaving  his  expressive, 
ardently  audacious,  but  not  unpleasantly  impudent  face 
exposed  to  the  golden  rays  of  which  he  had  no  fear. 

As  Delarey  looked  at  him  he  felt  oddly  at  home  with 
him,  almost  as  if  he  stood  beside  a  young  brother.  Yet 
he  could  scarcely  speak  Gaspare's  language,  and  knew 
nothing  of  his  thoughts,  his  feelings,  his  hopes,  his  way 
of  life.  It  was  an  odd  sensation,  a  subtle  sympathy  not 
founded  upon  knowledge.  It  seemed  to  flow  into  De- 
larey's  heart  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sun,  to  steal  into  it 
with  the  music  of  the  "  Pastorale." 

"I  feel — I  feel  almost  as  if  I  belonged  here,"  he  whis- 
pered to  Hermione,  at  last. 
60 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  down  on  him  from 
her  donkey.  The  tears  were  still  in  her  eyes. 

"I  always  knew  you  belonged  to  the  blessed,  blessed 
south,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "Do  you  care  for 
that  ?" 

She  pointed  towards  the  terrace. 

"That  music?" 

"Yes." 

"Tremendously,  but  I  don't  know  why.  Is  it  very 
beautiful?" 

"I  sometimes  think  it  is  the  most  beautiful  music  I 
have  ever  heard.  At  any  rate,  I  have  always  loved  it 
more  than  all  other  music,  and  now — well,  you  can  guess 
if  I  love  it  now." 

She  dropped  one  hand  against  the  donkey's  warm 
shoulder.  Maurice  took  it  in  his  warm  hand. 

"All  Sicily,  all  the  real,  wild  Sicily  seems  to  be  in  it. 
They  play  it  in  the  churches  on  the  night  of  the  Natale," 
she  went  on,  after  a  moment.  "I  shall  never  forget 
hearing  it  for  the  first  time.  I  felt  as  if  it  took  hold 
of  my  very  soul  with  hands  like  the  hands  of  the  Bam- 
bino." 

She  broke  off.  A  tear  had  fallen  down  upon  her 
cheek. 

"  Avanti  Gaspare!"  she  said. 

Gaspare  lifted  his  switch  and  gave  Tito  a  tap,  calling 
out  "Ah!"  in  a  loud,  manly  voice.  The  donkey  moved 
on,  tripping  carefully  among  the  stones.  They  mounted 
slowly  up  towards  the  "  Pastorale."  Presently  Hermi- 
one  said  to  Maurice,  who  kept  beside  her  in  spite  of  the 
narrowness  of  the  path : 

"Everything  seems  very  strange  to  me  to-day.  Can 
you  guess  why?" 

"I  don't  know.     Tell  me,"  he  answered. 

"It's  this.  I  never  expected  to  be  perfectly  happy. 
We  all  have  our  dreams,  I  suppose.  We  all  think  now 
and  then,  '  If  only  I  could  have  this  with  that,  this  per- 
61 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

son  in  that  place,  I  could  be  happy.'  And  perhaps  we 
have  sometimes  a  part  of  our  dream  turned  into  reality, 
though  even  that  comes  seldom.  But  to  have  the  two, 
to  have  the  two  halves  of  our  dream  fitted  together  and 
made  reality — isn't  that  rare?  Long  ago,  when  I  was 
a  girl,  I  always  used  to  think — 'If  I  could  ever  be  with 
the  one  I  loved  in  the  south — alone,  quite  alone,  quite 
away  from  the  world,  I  could  be  perfectly  happy.' 
Well,  years  after  I  thought  that  I  came  here.  I  knew 
at  once  I  had  found  my  ideal  place.  One-half  of  my 
dream  was  made  real  and  was  mine.  That  was  much, 
wasn't  it?  But  getting  this  part  of  what  I  longed  for 
sometimes  made  me  feel  unutterably  sad.  I  had  never 
seen  you  then,  but  often  when  I  sat  on  that  little  ter- 
race up  there  I  felt  a  passionate  desire  to  have  a  human 
being  whom  I  loved  beside  me.  I  loved  no  one  then, 
but  I  wanted,  I  needed  to  love.  Do  men  ever  feel  that  ? 
Women  do,  often,  nearly  always  I  think.  The  beauty 
made  me  want  to  love.  Sometimes,  as  I  leaned  over 
the  wall,  I  heard  a  shepherd-boy  below  in  the  ravine 
play  on  his  pipe,  or  I  heard  the  goat-bells  ringing  under 
the  olives.  Sometimes  at  night  I  saw  distant  lights, 
like  fire-flies,  lamps  carried  by  peasants  going  to  their 
homes  in  the  mountains  from  a  festa  in  honor  of  some 
saint,  stealing  upward  through  the  darkness,  or  I  saw 
the  fishermen's  lights  burning  in  the  boats  far  off  upon 
the  sea.  Then — then  I  knew  that  I  had  only  half  my 
dream,  and  I  was  ungrateful,  Maurice.  I  almost  wished 
that  I  had  never  had  this  half,  because  it  made  me 
realize  what  it  would  be  to  have  the  whole.  It  made 
me  realize  the  mutilation,  the  incompleteness  of  being 
in  perfect  beauty  without  love.  And  now — now  I've 
actually  got  all  I  ever  wanted,  and  much  more,  because 
I  didn't  know  then  at  all  what  it  would  really  mean 
to  me  to  have  it.  And,  besides,  I  never  thought  that 
God  would  select  me  for  perfect  happiness.  •  Why  should 
he  ?  What  have  I  ever  done  to  be  worthy  of  such  a  gift  ?" 
62 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"You've  been  yourself,"  he  answered. 

At  this  moment  the  path  narrowed  and  he  had  to  fall 
behind,  and  they  did  not  speak  again  till  they  had 
clambered  up  the  last  bit  of  the  way,  steep  almost  as 
the  side  of  a  house,  passed  through  the  old  ruined  arch, 
and  came  out  upon  the  terrace  before  the  Casa  del  Prete. 

Sebastiano  met  them,  still  playing  lustily  upon  his 
pipe,  while  the  sweat  dripped  from  his  sunburned  face; 
but  Lucrezia,  suddenly  overcome  by  shyness,  had  dis- 
appeared round  the  corner  of  the  cottage  to  the  kitchen. 
.  The  donkey  boys  were  resting  on  the  stone  seats  in  easy 
attitudes,  waiting  for  Gaspare's  orders  to  unload,  and 
looking  forward  to  a  drink  of  the  Monte  Amato  wine. 
When  they  had  had  it  they  meant  to  carry  out  a  plan 
devised  by  the  radiant  Gaspare,  to  dance  a  tarantella 
for  the  forestieri  while  Sebastiano  played  the  flute.  But 
no  hint  of  this  intention  was  to  be  given  till  the  luggage 
had  been  taken  down  and  carried  into  the  house.  Their 
bright  faces  were  all  twinkling  with  the  knowledge  of 
their  secret.  When  at  length  Sebastiano  had  put  down 
the  ceramella  and  shaken  Hermione  and  Maurice  warm- 
ly by  the  hand,  and  Gaspare  had  roughly,  but  with  roars 
of  laughter,  dragged  Lucrezia  into  the  light  of  day  to 
be  presented,  Hermione  took  her  husband  in  to  see 
their  home.  On  the  table  in  the  sitting-room  lay  a 
letter. 

"A  letter  already!"  she  said. 

There  was  a  sound  almost  of  vexation  in  her  voice. 
The  little  white  thing  lying  there  seemed  to  bring  a 
breath  of  the  world  she  wanted  to  forget  into  their 
solitude. 

"Who  can  have  written?" 

She  took  it  up  and  felt  contrition. 

"It's  from  Emile!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  good  of 
him  to  remember!  This  must  be  his  welcome." 

"Read  it,  Hermione,"  said  Maurice.  "I'll  look  after 
Gaspare. 

63 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  laughed. 

"  Better  not.  He's  here  to  look  after  us.  But  you'll 
soon  understand  him,  very  soon,  and  he  you.  You 
speak  different  languages,  but  you  both  belong  to  the 
south.  Let  him  alone,  Maurice.  We'll  read  this  to- 
gether. I'm  sure  it's  for  you  as  well  as  me." 

And  while  Gaspare  and  the  boys  carried  in  the  trunks 
she  sat  down  by  the  table  and  opened  Emile's  letter. 
It  was  very  short,  and  was  addressed  from  Kairouan, 
where  Artois  had  established  himself  for  the  spring  in 
an  Arab  house.  She  began  reading  it  aloud  in  French: 

"This  is  a  word — perhaps  unwelcome,  for  I  think  I  under- 
stand, dear  friend,  something  of  what  you  are  feeling  and  of 
what  you  desire  just  now — a  word  of  welcome  to  your  garden 
of  paradise.  May  there  never  be  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword 
to  keep  the  gate  against  you.  Listen  to  the  shepherds  fluting, 
dream,  or,  better,  live,  as  you  are  grandly  capable  of  living, 
under  the  old  olives  of  Sicily.  Take  your  golden  time  boldly 
with  both  hands.  Life  may  seem  to  most  of  us  who  think  in 
the  main  a  melancholy,  even  a  tortured  thing,  but  when  it  is 
not  so  for  a  while  to  one  who  can  think  as  you  can  think,  the 
power  of  thought,  of  deep  thought,  intensifies  its  glory.  You 
will  never  enjoy  as  might  a  pagan,  perhaps  never  as  might  a 
saint.  But  you  will  enjoy  as  a  generous-blooded  woman  with 
a  heart  that  only  your  friends — I  should  like  to  dare  to  say 
only  one  friend — know  in  its  rare  entirety.  There  is  an  egoist 
here,  in  the  shadow  of  the  mosques,  who  turns  his  face  towards 
Mecca,  and  prays  that  you  may  never  leave  your  garden. 

"E.  A. 

"  Does  the  Sicilian  grandmother  respond  to  the  magic  of  the 
south?" 

When  she  drew  near  to  the  end  of  this  letter  Her- 
mione  hesitated. 

"He — there's  something,"  she  said,  "that  is  too 
kind  to  me.  I  don't  think  I'll  read  it." 

"Don't,"  said  Delarey.     "But  it  can't  be  too  kind." 

She  saw  the  postscript  and  smiled. 

"And  quite  at  the  end  there's  an  allusion  to  you." 

"Is  there?" 

64 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  must  read  that." 

And  she  read  it. 

"He  needn't  be  afraid  of  the  grandmother's  not  re- 
sponding, need  he,  Maurice?" 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling  too.  "But  is  that  it,  do  you 
think  ?  Why  should  it  be  ?  Who  wouldn't  love  this 
place?" 

And  he  went  to  the  open  door  and  looked  out  tow- 
ards the  sea. 

"  Who  wouldn't?"  he  repeated. 

"Oh,  I  have  met  an  Englishman  who  was  angry  with 
Etna  for  being  the  shape  it  is." 

"What  an  ass!" 

"I  thought  so,  too.  But,  seriously,  I  expect  the 
grandmother  has  something  to  say  in  that  matter  of 
your  feeling  already,  as  if  you  belonged  here." 

"Perhaps." 

He  was  still  looking  towards  the  distant  sea  far  down 
below  them. 

"Is  that  an  island?"  he  asked. 

"Where?"  said  Hermione,  getting  up  and  coming 
towards  him.  "Oh,  that — no,  it  is  a  promontory,  but 
it's  almost  surrounded  by  the  sea.  There  is  only  a 
narrow  ledge  of  rock,  like  a  wall,  connecting  it  with  the 
main -land,  and  in  the  rock  there's  a  sort  of  natural 
tunnel  through  which  the  sea  flows.  I've  sometimes 
been  to  picnic  there.  On  the  plateau  hidden  among 
the  trees  there's  a  ruined  house.  I  have  spent  many 
hours  reading  and  writing  in  it.  They  call  it,  in  Mare- 
chiaro,  Casa  delle  Sirene — the  house  of  the  sirens." 

"Questo  vino  e  hello  e  fino," 

cried  Gaspare's  voice  outside. 

"A  Brindisi!"  said  Hermione.  "Gaspare's  treating 
the  boys.  Questo  vino — oh,  how  glorious  to  be  here 
in  Sicily!" 

65 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  put  her  arm  through  Delarey's,  and  drew  him 
out  onto  the  terrace.  Gaspare,  Lucrezia,  Sebastiano, 
and  the  three  boys  stood  there  with  glasses  of  red  wine 
in  their  hands  raised  high  above  their  heads. 

"Questo  vino  £  bello  e  fino, 
E  portato  da  Castel  Perini, 
Faccio  brindisi  alia  Signora  Ermini," 

continued  Gaspare,  joyously,  and  with  an  obvious  pride 
in  his  poetical  powers. 

They  all  drank  simultaneously,  Lucrezia  spluttering 
a  little  out  of  shyness. 

"  Monte  Amato,  Gaspare,  not  Castel  Perini.  But  that 
doesn't  rhyme,  eh  ?  Bravo!  But  we  must  drink,  too." 

Gaspare  hastened  to  fill  two  more  glasses. 

"Now  it's  our  turn,"  cried  Hermione. 

"Questo  vino  e  bello  e  fino, 
E  portato  da  Castello  a  mare, 
Faccio  brindisi  al  Signor  Gaspare." 

The  boys  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  and  Gaspare's 
eyes  gleamed  with  pleasure  while  Hermione  and  Maurice 
drank.  Then  Sebastiano  drew  from  the  inner  pocket 
of  his  old  jacket  a  little  flute,  smiling  with  an  air  of  in- 
tense and  comic  slyness  which  contorted  his  face. 

"Ah,"  said  Hermione,  "I  know — it's  the  tarantella!" 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

"It  only  wanted  that,"  she  said  to  Maurice.  "Only 
that — the  tarantella!" 

"Guai  Lucrezia!"  cried  Gaspare,  tyrannically. 

Lucrezia  bounded  to  one  side,  bent  her  body  inward, 
and  giggled  with  all  her  heart.  Sebastiano  leaned  his 
back  against  a  column  and  put  the  flute  to  his  lips. 

"Here,  Maurice,  here!"  said  Hermione. 

She  made  him  sit  down  on  one  of  the  seats  under  the 
parlor  window,  facing  the  view,  while  the  four  boys  took 
their  places,  one  couple  opposite  to  the  other.  Then 
66 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Sebastiano  began  to  twitter  the  tune  familiar  to  the 
Sicilians  of  Marechiaro,  in  which  all  the  careless  pagan 
joy  of  life  in  the  sun  seems  caught  and  flung  out  upon 
a  laughing,  dancing  world.  Delarey  laid  his  hands  on 
the  warm  tiles  of  the  seat,  leaned  forward,  and  watched 
with  eager  eyes.  He  had  never  seen  the  tarantella, 
yet  now  with  his  sensation  of  expectation  there  was 
blended  another  feeling.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
were  going  to  see  something  he  had  known  once,  per- 
haps very  long  ago,  something  that  he  had  forgotten 
and  that  was  now  going  to  be  recalled  to  his  memory. 
Some  nerve  in  his  body  responded  to  Sebastiano 's  live- 
ly tune.  A  desire  of  movement  came  to  him  as  he 
saw  the  gay  boys  waiting  on  the  terrace,  their  eyes 
already  dancing,  although  their  bodies  were  still. 

Gaspare  bent  forward,  lifted  his  hands  above  his 
head,  and  began  to  snap  his  fingers  in  time  to  the  music. 
A  look  of  joyous  invitation  had  come  into  his  eyes — 
an  expression  that  was  almost  coquettish,  like  the  ex- 
pression of  a  child  who  has  conceived  some  lively,  in- 
nocent design  of  which  he  thinks  that  no  one  knows 
except  himself.  His  young  figure  surely  quivered  with 
a  passion  of  merry  mischief  which  was  communicated 
to  his  companions.  In  it  there  began  to  flame  a  spirit 
that  suggested  undying  youth.  Even  before  they  be- 
gan to  dance  the  boys  were  transformed.  If  they  had 
ever  known  cares  those  cares  had  fled,  for  in  the  breasts 
of  those  who  can  really  dance  the  tarantella  there  is 
no  room  for  the  smallest  sorrow,  in  their  hearts  no 
place  for  the  most  minute  regret,  anxiety,  or  wonder, 
when  the  rapture  of  the  measure  is  upon  them.  Away 
goes  everything  but  the  pagan  joy  of  life,  the  pagan 
ecstasy  of  swift  movement,  and  the  leaping  blood  that 
is  quick  as  the  motes  in  a  sunray  falling  from  a  south- 
ern sky.  Delarey  began  to  smile  as  he  watched  them, 
and  their  expression  was  reflected  in  his  eyes.  Her- 
mione  glanced  at  him  and  thought  what  a  boy  he  looked. 
67 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

His  eyes  made  her  feel  almost  as  if  she  were  sitting  with 
a  child. 

The  mischief,  the  coquettish  joy  of  the  boys  in- 
creased. They  snapped  their  fingers  more  loudly, 
swayed  their  bodies,  poised  themselves  first  on  one 
foot,  then  on  the  other,  then  abruptly,  and  with  a  wild- 
ness  that  was  like  the  sudden  crash  of  all  the  instru- 
ments in  an  orchestra  breaking  in  upon  the  melody  of 
a  solitary  flute,  burst  into  the  full  frenzy  of  the  dance. 
And  in  the  dance  each  seemed  to  be  sportively  crea- 
tive, ruled  by  his  own  sweet  will. 

"That's  why  I  love  the  tarantella  more  than  any 
other  dance,"  Hermione  murmured  to  her  husband, 
"because  it  seems  to  be  the  invention  of  the  moment, 
as  if  they  were  wild  with  joy  and  had  to  show  it  some- 
how, and  showed  it  beautifully  by  dancing.  Look  at 
Gaspare  now." 

With  his  hands  held  high  above  his  head,  and  linked 
together,  Gaspare  was  springing  into  the  air,  as  if  pro- 
pelled by  one  of  those  boards  which  are  used  by  acro- 
bats in  circuses  for  leaping  over  horses.  He  had  thrown 
off  his  hat,  and  his  low-growing  hair,  which  was  rather 
long  on  the  forehead,  moved  as  he  sprang  upward,  as 
if  his  excitement,  penetrating  through  every  nerve  in 
his  body,  had  filled  it  with  electricity.  While  Her- 
mione watched  him  she  almost  expected  to  see  its 
golden  tufts  give  off  sparks  in  response  to  the  sparkling 
radiance  that  flashed  from  his  laughing  eyes.  For  in 
all  the  wild  activity  of  his  changing  movements  Gas- 
pare never  lost  his  coquettish  expression,  the  look  of 
seductive  mischief  that  seemed  to  invite  the  whole 
world  to  be  merry  and  mad  as  he  was.  His  ever-smil- 
ing lips  and  ever-smiling  eyes  defied  fatigue,  and  his 
young  body — grace  made  a  living,  pulsing,  aspiring 
reality — suggested  the  tireless  intensity  of  a  flame.  The 
other  boys  danced  well,  but  Gaspare  outdid  them  all, 
for  they  only  looked  gay  while  he  looked  mad  with  joy. 
68 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

And  to-day,  at  this  moment,  he  felt  exultant.  He 
had  a  padrona  to  whom  he  was  devoted  with  that  pe- 
culiar sensitive  devotion  of  the  Sicilian  which,  once 
it  is  fully  aroused,  is  tremendous  in  its  strength  and 
jealous  in  its  doggedness.  He  was  in  command  of 
Lucrezia,  and  was  respectfully  looked  up  to  by  all  his 
boy  friends  of  Marechiaro  as  one  who  could  dispense 
patronage,  being  a  sort  of  purse-bearer  and  conductor 
of  rich  forestieri  in  a  strange  land.  Even  Sebastiano, 
a  personage  rather  apt  to  be  a  little  haughty  in  his 
physical  strength,  and,  though  no  longer  a  brigand, 
no  great  respecter  of  others,  showed  him  to-day  a  cer- 
tain deference  which  elated  his  boyish  spirit.  And  all 
his  elation,  all  his  joy  in  the  present  and  hopes  for  the 
future,  he  let  out  in  the  dance.  To  dance  the  taran- 
tella almost  intoxicated  him,  even  when  he  only  danced 
it  in  the  village  among  the  contadini,  but  to-day  the 
admiring  eyes  of  his  padrona  were  upon  him.  He  knew 
how  she  loved  the  tarantella.  He  knew,  too,  that  she 
wanted  the  padrone,  her  husband,  to  love  it  as  she  did. 
Gaspare  was  very  shrewd  to  read  a  woman's  thoughts 
so  long  as  her  love  ran  in  them.  Though  but  eighteen, 
he  was  a  man  in  certain  knowledge.  He  understood, 
almost  unconsciously,  a  good  deal  of  what  Hermione 
was  feeling  as  she  watched,  and  he  put  his  whole  soul 
into  the  effort  to  shine,  to  dazzle,  to  rouse  gayety  and 
wonder  in  the  padrone,  who  saw  him  dance  for  the  first 
time.  He  was  untiring  in  his  variety  and  his  invention. 
Sometimes,  light-footed  in  his  mountain  boots,  with  an 
almost  incredible  swiftness  and  vim,  he  rushed  from  end 
to  end  of  the  terrace.  His  feet  twinkled  in  steps  so 
complicated  and  various  that  he  made  the  eyes  that 
watched  him  wink  as  at  a  play  of  sparks  in  a  furnace, 
and  his  arms  and  hands  were  never  still,  yet  never,  even 
for  a  second,  fell  into  a  curve  that  was  ungraceful. 
Sometimes  his  head  was  bent  whimsically  forward  as  if 
in  invitation.  Sometimes  he  threw  his  whole  body 
69 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

backward,  exposing  his  brown  throat,  and  staring  up  at 
the  sun  like  a  sun  worshipper  dancing  to  his  divinity. 
Sometimes  he  crouched  on  his  haunches,  clapping  his 
hands  together  rhythmically,  and,  with  bent  knees, 
shooting  out  his  legs  like  some  jovially  grotesque  dwarf 
promenading  among  a  crowd  of  Follies.  And  always  the 
spirit  of  the  dance  seemed  to  increase  within  him,  and 
the  intoxication  of  it  to  take  more  hold  upon  him,  and 
his  eyes  grew  brighter  and  his  face  more  radiant,  and 
his  body  more  active,  more  utterly  untiring,  till  he  was 
the  living  embodiment  surely  of  all  the  youth  and  all 
the  gladness  of  the  world. 

Hermione  had  kept  Artois's  letter  in  her  hand,  and 
now,  as  she  danced  in  spirit  with  Gaspare,  and  rejoiced 
not  only  in  her  own  joy,  but  in  his,  she  thought  sud- 
denly of  that  sentence  in  it — "Life  may  seem  to  most 
of  us  who  think  in  the  main  a  melancholy,  even  a  tor- 
tured, thing."  Life  a  tortured  thing!  She  was  thinking 
now,  exultantly  thinking.  Her  thoughts  were  leap- 
ing, spinning,  crouching,  whirling,  rushing  with  Gas- 
pare in  the  sunshine.  But  life  was  a  happy,  a  radiant 
reality.  No  dream,  it  was  more  beautiful  than  any 
dream,  as  the  clear,  when  lovely,  is  more  lovely  than 
even  that  which  is  exquisite  and  vague.  She  had,  of 
course,  always  known  that  in  the  world  there  is  much 
joy.  Now  she  felt  it,  she  felt  all  the  joy  of  the  world. 
She  felt  the  joy  of  sunshine  and  of  blue,  the  joy  of  love 
and  of  sympathy,  the  joy  of  health  and  of  activity,  the 
joy  of  sane  passion  that  fights  not  against  any  law  of 
God  or  man,  the  joy  of  liberty  in  a  joyous  land  where 
the  climate  is  kindly,  and,  despite  poverty  and  toil, 
there  are  songs  upon  the  lips  of  men,  there  are  taran- 
tellas in  their  sun-browned  bodies,  there  are  the  fires  of 
gayety  in  their  bold,  dark  eyes.  Joy,  joy  twittered  in  the 
reed-flute  of  Sebastiano,  and  the  boys  were  joys  made 
manifest.  Hermione's  eyes  had  filled  with  tears  of 
joy  when  among  the  olives  she  had  heard  the  far-off 
70 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

drone  of  the  "  Pastorale."  Now  they  shone  with  a  joy 
that  was  different,  less  subtly  sweet,  perhaps,  but  more 
buoyant,  more  fearless,  more  careless.  The  glory  of 
the  pagan  world  was  round  about  her,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment her  heart  was  like  the  heart  of  a  nymph  scatter- 
ing roses  in  a  Bacchic  triumph. 

Maurice  moved  beside  her,  and  she  heard  him  breath- 
ing quickly. 

"  What  is  it,  Maurice  ?"  she  asked.     "  You — do  you — " 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  understanding  the  question  she 
had  not  fully  asked.  "It  drives  me  almost  mad  to  sit 
still  and  see  those  boys.  Gaspare's  like  a  merry  devil 
tempting  one." 

As  if  Gaspare  had  understood  what  Maurice  said,  he 
suddenly  spun  round  from  his  companions,  and  began  to 
dance  in  front  of  Maurice  and  Hermione,  provocatively, 
invitingly,  bending  his  head  towards  them,  and  laugh- 
ing almost  in  their  faces,  but  without  a  trace  of  im- 
pertinence. He  did  not  speak,  though  his  lips  were 
parted,  showing  two  rows  of  even,  tiny  teeth,  but  his 
radiant  eyes  called  to  them,  scolded  them  for  their  in- 
activity, chaffed  them  for  it,  wondered  how  long  it 
would  last,  and  seemed  to  deny  that  it  could  last  for- 
ever. 

"What  eyes!"  said  Hermione.  "Did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  expressive?" 

Maurice  did  not  answer.  He  was  watching  Gaspare, 
fascinated,  completely  under  the  spell  of  the  dance. 
The  blood  was  beginning  to  boil  in  his  veins,  warm 
blood  of  the  south  that  he  had  never  before  felt  in  his 
body.  Artois  had  spoken  to  Hermione  of  "the  call  of 
the  blood."  Maurice  began  to  hear  it  now,  to  long  to 
obey  it. 

Gaspare  clapped  his  hands  alternately  in  front  of 
him  and  behind  him,  leaping  from  side  to  side,  with  a 
step  in  which  one  foot  crossed  over  the  other,  and  hold- 
ing his  body  slightly  curved  inward.  And  all  the  time 
71 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

he  kept  his  eyes  on  Delarey,  and  the  wily,  merry  in- 
vitation grew  stronger  in  them. 

"Venga!"  he  whispered,  always  dancing.  "Venga, 
signorino,  venga — venga!" 

He  spun  round,  clapped  his  hands  furiously,  snapped 
his  fingers,  and  jumped  back.  Then  he  held  out  his 
hands  to  Delarey,  with  a  gay  authority  that  was  ir- 
resistible. 

"Venga,  venga,  signorino!     Venga,  venga!" 

All  the  blood  in  Delarey  responded,  chasing  away 
something — was  it  a  shyness,  a  self -consciousness  of 
love — that  till  now  had  held  him  back  from  the  gratifi- 
cation of  his  desire  ?  He  sprang  up  and  he  danced  the 
tarantella,  danced  it  almost  as  if  he  had  danced  it  all 
his  life,  with  a  natural  grace,  a  frolicsome  abandon  that 
no  pure-blooded  Englishman  could  ever  achieve,  danced 
it  as  perhaps  once  the  Sicilian  grandmother  had  danced 
it  under  the  shadow  of  Etna.  Whatever  Gaspare  did 
he  imitated,  with  a  swiftness  and  a  certainty  that  were 
amazing,  and  Gaspare,  intoxicated  by  having  such  a 
pupil,  outdid  himself  in  countless  changing  activities. 
It  was  like  a  game  and  like  a  duel,  for  Gaspare  pres- 
ently began  almost  to  fight  for  supremacy  as  he  watched 
Delarey 's  startling  aptitude  in  the  tarantella,  which,  till 
this  moment,  he  had  considered  the  possession  of  those 
born  in  Sicily  and  of  Sicilian  blood.  He  seemed  to  feel 
that  this  pupil  might  in  time  become  the  master,  and 
to  be  put  upon  his  mettle,  and  he  put  forth  all  his  cun- 
ning to  be  too  much  for  Delarey. 

And  Hermione  was  left  alone,  watching,  for  Lucrezia 
had  disappeared,  suddenly  mindful  of  some  household 
duty. 

When  Delarey  sprang  up  she  felt  a  thrill  of  respon- 
sive excitement,  and  when  she  watched  his  first  steps, 
and  noted  the  look  of  youth  in  him,  the  supple  southern 
grace  that  rivalled  the  boyish  grace  of  Gaspare,  she  was 
filled  with  that  warm,  that  almost  yearning  admiration 
72 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

which  is  the  child  of  love.  But  another  feeling  fol- 
lowed— a  feeling  of  melancholy.  As  she  watched  him 
dancing  with  the  four  boys,  a  gulf  seemed  to  yawn  be- 
tween her  and  them.  She  was  alone  on  her  side  of  this 
gulf,  quite  alone.  They  were  remote  from  her.  She 
suddenly  realized  that  Delarey  belonged  to  the  south, 
and  that  she  did  not.  Despite  all  her  understanding  of 
the  beauty  of  the  south,  all  her  sympathy  for  the  spirit 
of  the  south,  all  her  passionate  love  of  the  south,  she 
was  not  of  it.  She  came  to  it  as  a  guest.  But  Delarey 
was  of  it.  She  had  never  realized  that  absolutely  till 
this  moment.  Despite  his  English  parentage  and  up- 
bringing, the  southern  strain  in  his  ancestry  had  been 
revived  in  him.  The  drop  of  southern  blood  in  his 
veins  was  his  master.  She  had  not  married  an  English- 
man. 

Once  again,  and  in  all  the  glowing  sunshine,  with 
Etna  and  the  sea  before  her,  and  the  sound  of  Sebas- 
tiano's  flute  in  her  ears,  she  was  on  the  Thames  Em- 
bankment in  the  night  with  Artois,  and  heard  his  deep 
voice  speaking  to  her. 

"  Does  he  know  his  own  blood  ?"  said  the  voice.  "  Our 
blood  governs  us  when  the  time  comes." 

And  again  the  voice  said: 

"The  possible  call  of  the  blood  that  he  doesn't  under- 
stand." 

"The  call  of  the  blood."  There  was  now  something 
almost  terrible  to  Hermione  in  that  phrase,  something 
menacing  and  irresistible.  Were  men,  then,  governed 
irrevocably,  dominated  by  the  blood  that  was  in  them  ? 
Artois  had  certainly  seemed  to  imply  that  they  were, 
and  he  knew  men  as  few  knew  them.  His  powerful 
intellect,  like  a  search-light,  illumined  the  hidden  places, 
discovering  the  concealed  things  of  the  souls  of  men. 
But  Artois  was  not  a  religious  man,  and  Hermione  had 
a  strong  sense  of  religion,  though  she  did  not  cling,  as 
many  do,  to  any  one  creed.  If  the  call  of  the  blood 
73 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

were  irresistible  in  a  man,  then  man  was  only  a  slave. 
The  criminal  must  not  be  condemned,  nor  the  saint 
exalted.  Conduct  was  but  obedience  in  one  who  had 
no  choice  but  to  obey.  Could  she  believe  that  ? 

The  dance  grew  wilder,  swifter.  Sebastiano  quick- 
ened the  time  till  he  was  playing  it  prestissimo.  One 
of  the  boys,  Giulio,  dropped  out  exhausted.  Then  an- 
other, Alfio,  fell  against  the  terrace  wall,  laughing  and 
wiping  his  streaming  face.  Finally  Giuseppe  gave  in, 
too,  obviously  against  his  will.  But  Gaspare  and  Maurice 
still  kept  on.  The  game  was  certainly  a  duel  now — a 
duel  which  would  not  cease  till  Sebastiano  put  an  end 
to  it  by  laying  down  his  flute.  But  he,  too,  was  on  his 
mettle  and  would  not  own  fatigue.  Suddenly  Her- 
mione  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  the  dance  any  more. 
It  was,  perhaps,  absurd  of  her.  Her  brain,  fatigued  by 
travel,  was  perhaps  playing  her  tricks.  But  she  felt  as 
if  Maurice  were  escaping  from  her  in  this  wild  tarantel- 
la, like  a  man  escaping  through  a  fantastic  grotto  from 
some  one  who  called  to  him  near  its  entrance.  A  faint 
sensation  of  something  that  was  surely  jealousy,  the 
first  she  had  ever  known,  stirred  in  her  heart — jealousy 
of  a  tarantella. 

"Maurice!"  she  said. 

He  did  not  hear  her. 

"  Maurice!"  she  called.  "  Sebastiano — Gaspare — stop! 
You'll  kill  yourselves!" 

Sebastiano  caught  her  eye,  finished  the  tune,  and 
took  the  flute  from  his  lips.  In  truth  he  was  not  sorry 
to  be  commanded  to  do  the  thing  his  pride  of  music 
forbade  him  to  do  of  his  own  will.  Gaspare  gave  a  wild, 
boyish  shout,  and  flung  himself  down  on  Giuseppe's 
knees,  clasping  him  round  the  neck  jokingly.  And 
Maurice — he  stood  still  on  the  terrace  for  a  moment  look- 
ing dazed.  Then  the  hot  blood  surged  up  to  his  head, 
making  it  tingle  under  his  hair,  and  he  came  over  slow- 
ly, almost  shamefacedly,  and  sat  down  by  Hermione. 
74 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"This  sun's  made  me  mad,  I  think,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her.  "Why,  how  pale  you  are,  Hermione!" 

"Am  I?  No,  it  must  be  the  shadow  of  the  awning 
makes  me  look  so.  Oh,  Maurice,  you  are  indeed  a  south- 
erner! Do  you  know,  I  feel — I  feel  as  if  I  had  never 
really  seen  you  till  now,  here  on  this  terrace,  as  if  I  had 
never  known  you  as  you  are  till  now,  now  that  I've 
watched  you  dance  the  tarantella." 

"  I  can't  dance  it,  of  course.  It  was  absurd  of  me  to 
try." 

"Ask  Gaspare!  No,  I'll  ask  him.  Gaspare,  can  the 
padrone  dance  the  tarantella?" 

"Eh — altro!"  said  Gaspare,  with  admiring  conviction. 

He  got  off  Giuseppe's  knee,  where  he  had  been  curled 
up  almost^  like  a  big  kitten,  came  and  stood  by  Her- 
mione, and  added: 

"Per  Dio,  signora,  but  the  padrone  is  like  one  of  us!" 

Hermione  laughed.  Now  that  the  dance  was  over 
and  the  twittering  flute  was  silent,  her  sense  of  loneli- 
ness and  melancholy  was  departing.  Soon,  no  doubt, 
she  would  be  able  to  look  back  upon  it  and  laugh  at  it 
as  one  laughs  at  moods  that  have  passed  away. 

"This  is  his  first  day  in  Sicily,  Gaspare." 

"There  are  forestieri  who  come  here  every  year,  and 
who  stay  for  months,  and  who  can  talk  our  language — 
yes,  and  can  even  swear  in  dialetto  as  we  can — but  they 
are  not  like  the  padrone.  Not  one  of  them  could  dance 
the  tarantella  like  that.  Per  Dio!" 

A  radiant  look  of  pleasure  came  into  Maurice's  face. 

"I'm  glad  you've  brought  me  here,"  he  said.  "Ah, 
when  you  chose  this  place  for  our  honeymoon  you  under- 
stood me  better  than  I  understand  myself,  Hermione." 

"  Did  I  ?"  she  said,  slowly.  "  But  no,  Maurice,  I  think 
I  chose  a  little  selfishly.  I  was  thinking  of  what  I 
wanted.  Oh,  the  boys  are  going,  and  Sebastiano." 

That  evening,  when  they  had  finished  supper — they 
did  not  wish  to  test  Lucrezia's  powers  too  severely  by 
6  75 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

dining  the  first  day — they  came  out  onto  the  terrace. 
Lucrezia  and  Gaspare  were  busily  talking  in  the  kitchen. 
Tito,  the  donkey,  was  munching  his  hay  under  the  low- 
pitched  roof  of  the  out -house.  Now  and  then  they 
could  faintly  hear  the  sound  of  his  moving  jaws,  Lu- 
crezia's  laughter,  or  Gaspare's  eager  voice.  These 
fragmentary  noises  scarcely  disturbed  the  great  silence 
that  lay  about  them,  the  night  hush  of  the  mountains 
and  the  sea.  Hermione  sat  down  on  the  seat  in  the 
terrace  wall  looking  over  the  ravine.  It  was  a  moon- 
less night,  but  the  sky  was  clear  and  spangled  with  stars. 
There  was  a  cool  breeze  blowing  from  Etna.  Here  and 
there  upon  the  mountains  shone  solitary  lights,  and  one 
was  moving  slowly  through  the  darkness  along  the  crest 
of  a  hill  opposite  to  them,  a  torch  carried  by  some  peas- 
ant going  to  his  hidden  cottage  among  the  olive-trees. 

Maurice  lit  his  cigar  and  stood  by  Hermione,  who  was 
sitting  sideways  and  leaning  her  arms  on  the  wall,  and 
looking  out  into  the  wide  dimness  in  which,  somewhere, 
lay  the  ravine.  He  did  not  want  to  talk  just  then,  and 
she  kept  silence.  This  was  really  their  wedding  night, 
and  both  of  them  were  unusually  conscious,  but  in  dif- 
ferent ways,  of  the  mystery  that  lay  about  them,  and 
that  lay,  too,  within  them.  It  was  strange  to  be  to- 
gether up  here,  far  up  in  the  mountains,  isolated  in  their 
love.  Below  the  wall,  on  the  side  of  the  ravine,  the 
leaves  of  the  olives  rustled  faintly  as  the  wind  passed 
by.  And  this  whisper  of  the  leaves  seemed  to  be  meant 
for  them,  to  be  addressed  to  them.  They  were  surely 
being  told  something  by  the  little  voices  of  the  night. 

"Maurice,"  Hermione  said,  at  last,  "does  this  silence 
of  the  mountains  make  you  wish  for  anything?" 

"Wish?"  he  said.  "I  don't  know — no,  I  think  not. 
I  have  got  what  I  wanted.  I  have  got  you.  Why 
should  I  wish  for  anything  more  ?  And  I  feel  at  home 
here.  It's  extraordinary  how  I  feel  at  home." 

"You!     No,  it  isn't  extraordinary  at  all." 
76 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  looked  up  at  him,  still  keeping  her  arms  on  the 
terrace  wall.  His  physical  beauty,  which  had  always 
fascinated  her,  moved  her  more  than  ever  in  the  south, 
seemed  to  her  to  become  greater,  to  have  more  meaning 
in  this  setting  of  beauty  and  romance.  She  thought 
of  the  old  pagan  gods.  He  was,  indeed,  suited  to  be 
their  happy  messenger.  At  that  moment  something 
within  her  more  than  loved  him,  worshipped  him,  felt 
for  him  an  idolatry  that  had  something  in  it  of  pain. 
A  number  of  thoughts  ran  through  her  mind  swiftly. 
One  was  this:  "Can  it  be  possible  that  he  will  die  some 
day,  that  he  will  be  dead?"  And  the  awfulness,  the 
unspeakable  horror  of  the  death  of  the  body  gripped  her 
and  shook  her  in  the  dark. 

"Oh,  Maurice!"  she  said.     "Maurice!" 

"What  is  it?" 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him.  He  took  them  and 
sat  down  by  her. 

"What  is  it,  Hermione?"  he  said  again. 

"If  beauty  were  only  deathless!" 

"  But — but  all  this  is,  for  us.  It  was  here  for  the  old 
Greeks  to  see,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  here — " 

"I  didn't  mean  that." 

"I've  been  stupid,"  he  said,  humbly. 

"  No,  my  dearest — my  dearest  one.  Oh,  how  did  you 
ever  love  me?" 

She  had  forgotten  the  warning  of  Artois.  The  dirty 
little  beggar  was  staring  at  the  angel  and  wanted  the 
angel  to  know  it. 

"Hermione!     What  do  you  mean?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  there  was  genuine  surprise  in 
his  face  and  in  his  voice. 

"How  can  you  love  me?  I'm  so  ugly.  Oh,  I  feel  it 
here,  I  feel  it  horribly  in  the  midst  of — of  all  this  love- 
liness, with  you." 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  shoulder  almost  like  one 
afraid. 

77 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  But  you  are  not  ugly!    What  nonsense!    Hermione!" 

He  put  his  hand  under  her  face  and  raised  it,  and  the 
touch  of  his  hand  against  her  cheek  made  her  tremble. 
To-night  she  more  than  loved,  she  worshipped  him. 
Her  intellect  did  not  speak  any  more.  Its  voice  was 
silenced  by  the  voice  of  the  heart,  by  the  voices  of  the 
senses.  She  felt  as  if  she  would  like  to  go  down  on  her 
knees  to  him  and  thank  him  for  having  loved  her,  for 
loving  her.  Abasement  would  have  been  a  joy  to  her 
just  then,  was  almost  a  necessity,  and  yet  there  was 
pride  in  her,  the  decent  pride  of  a  pure-natured  woman 
who  has  never  let  herself  be  soiled. 

"Hermione,"  he  said,  looking  into  her  face.  "Don't 
speak  to  me  like  that.  It's  all  wrong.  It  puts  me  in 
the  wrong  place,  I  a  fool  and  you — what  you  are.  If 
that  friend  of  yours  could  hear  you — by  Jove!" 

There  was  something  so  boyish,  so  simple  in  his 
voice  that  Hermione  suddenly  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him,  as  she  might  have  kissed  a 
delightful  child.  She  began  to  laugh  through  tears. 

"Thank  God  you're  not  conceited!"  she  exclaimed. 

"What  about?"  he  asked. 

But  she  did  not  answer.  Presently  they  heard  Gas- 
pare's step  on  the  terrace.  He  came  to  them  bare- 
headed, with  shining  eyes,  to  ask  if  they  were  satisfied 
with  Lucrezia.  About  himself  he  did  not  ask.  He  felt 
that  he  had  done  all  things  for  his  padrona  as  he  alone 
could  have  done  them,  knowing  her  so  well. 

"Gaspare,"  Hermione  said,  "everything  is  perfect. 
Tell  Lucrezia." 

"Better  not,  signora.  I  will  say  you  are  fairly  satis- 
fied, as  it  is  only  the  first  day.  Then  she  will  try  to 
do  better  to-morrow.  I  know  Lucrezia." 

.And  he  gazed  at  them  calmly  with  his  enormous 
liquid  eyes. 

"Do  not  say  too  much,  signora.  It  makes  people 
proud." 

78 


HE    ...    LOOKED    DOWN   AT    THE    LIGHT    SHINING    IN    THE    HOUSE 

OF  THE  SIRENS" 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  thought  that  she  heard  an  odd  Sicilian  echo  of 
Artois.  The  peasant  lad's  mind  reflected  the  mind  of 
the  subtle  novelist  for  a  moment. 

"Very  well,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  submissively. 

He  smiled  at  her  with  satisfaction. 

"I  understand  girls,"  he  said.  "You  must  keep 
them  down  or  they  will  keep  you  down.  Every  girl  in 
Marechiaro  is  like  that.  We  keep  them  down  there- 
fore." 

He  spoke  calmly,  evidently  quite  without  thought 
that  he  was  speaking  to  a  woman. 

"May  I  go  to  bed,  signora?"  he  added.  "I  got  up  at 
four  this  morning." 

"At  four!" 

"To  be  sure  all  was  ready  for  you  and  the  signore  " 

"Gaspare!  Go  at  once.  We  will  go  to  bed,  too. 
Shall  we,  Maurice?" 

"Yes.     I'm  ready." 

Just  as  they  were  going  up  the  steps  into  the  house, 
he  turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  night.  Far  down 
below  him  over  the  terrace  wall  he  saw  a  bright,  steady 
light. 

"Is  that  on  the  sea,  Hermione?"  he  asked,  pointing 
to  it.  "Do  they  fish  there  at  night?" 

"Oh  yes.     No  doubt  it  is  a  fisherman." 

Gaspare  shook  his  head. 

"You  understand?"  said  Hermione  to  him  in  Italian. 

"Si,  signora.    That  is  the  light  in  the  Casa  delle  Sirene." 

"But  no  one  lives  there." 

"Oh,  it  has  been  built  up  now,  and  Salvatore  Buona- 
vista  lives  there  with  Maddalena.  Buon  riposo,  signora. 
Buon  riposo,  signore." 

"Buon  riposo,  Gaspare." 

And  Maurice  echoed  it: 

"Buon  riposo." 

As  Gaspare  went  away  round  the  angle  of  the  cot- 
tage to  his  room  near  Tito's  stable,  Maurice  added: 
79 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Buon  riposo.  It's  an  awfully  nice  way  of  saying 
good-night.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  said  it  before,  somehow." 

"Your  blood  has  said  it  without  your  knowing  it, 
perhaps  many  times.  Are  you  coming,  Maurice?" 

He  turned  once  more,  looked  down  at  the  light  shin- 
ing in  the  house  of  the  sirens,  then  followed  Hermione 
in  through  the  open  door. 


THAT  spring-time  in  Sicily  seemed  to  Hermione 
touched  with  a  glamour  such  as  the  imaginative  dream- 
er connects  with  an  earlier  world — a  world  that  never 
existed  save  in  the  souls  of  dreamers,  who  weave  tissues 
of  gold  to  hide  naked  realities,  and  call  down  the  stars 
to  sparkle  upon  the  dust-heaps  of  the  actual.  Her- 
mione at  first  tried  to  make  her  husband  see  it  with 
her  eyes,  live  in  it  with  her  mind,  enjoy  it,  or  at  least 
seem  to  enjoy  it,  with  her  heart.  Did  he  not  love  her? 
But  he  did  more;  he  looked  up  to  her  with  reverence. 
In  her  love  for  him  there  was  a  yearning  of  worship, 
such  as  one  gifted  with  the  sense  of  the  ideal  is  con- 
scious of  when  he  stands  before  one  of  the  masterpieces 
of  art,  a  perfect  bronze  or  a  supreme  creation  in  mar- 
ble. Something  of  what  Hermione  had  felt  in  past 
years  when  she  looked  at  "The  Listening  Mercury," 
or  at  the  statue  of  a  youth  from  Hadrian's  Villa  in  the 
Capitoline  Museum  at  Rome,  she  felt  when  she  looked  at 
Maurice,  but  the  breath  of  life  in  him  increased,  instead 
of  diminishing,  her  passion  of  admiration.  And  this 
sometimes  surprised  her.  For  she  had  thought  till  now 
that  the  dead  sculptors  of  Greece  and  Rome  had  in 
their  works  succeeded  in  transcending  humanity,  had 
shown  what  God  might  have  created  instead  of  what 
He  had  created,  and  had  never  expected,  scarcely  ever 
even  desired,  to  be  moved  by  a  living  being  as  she  was 
moved  by  certain  representations  of  life  in  a  material. 
Yet  now  she  was  so  moved.  There  seemed  to  her  in 
her  husband's  beauty  something  strange,  something 
81 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

ideal,  almost  an  other-worldliness,  as  if  he  had  been 
before  this  age  in  which  she  loved  him,  had  had  an 
existence  in  the  fabled  world  that  the  modern  pagan 
loves  to  recall  when  he  walks  in  a  land  where  legend 
trembles  in  the  flowers,  and  whispers  in  the  trees,  and 
is  carried  on  the  winds  across  the  hill-sides,  and  lives 
again  in  the  silver  of  the  moon.  Often  she  thought  of 
him  listening  in  a  green  glade  to  the  piping  of  Pan,  or 
feeding  his  flocks  on  Mount  Latmos,  like  Endymion, 
and  falling  asleep  to  receive  the  kisses  of  Selene.  Or 
she  imagined  him  visiting  Psyche  in  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness, and  fleeing,  light-footed,  before  the  coming  of  the 
dawn.  He  seemed  to  her  ardent  spirit  to  have  stepped 
into  her  life  from  some  Attic  frieze  out  of  a  "fairy 
legend  of  old  Greece,"  and  the  contact  of  daily  com- 
panionship did  not  destroy  in  her  the  curious,  almost 
mystical  sensation  roused  in  her  by  the  peculiar,  and 
essentially  youthful  charm  which  even  Artois  had  been 
struck  by  in  a  London  restaurant. 

This  charm  increased  in  Sicily.  In  London  Maurice 
Delarey  had  seemed  a  handsome  youth,  with  a  delight- 
fully fresh  and  almost  woodland  aspect  that  set  him 
apart  from  the  English  people  by  whom  he  was  sur- 
rounded. In  Sicily  he  seemed  at  once  to  be  in  his 
right  setting.  He  had  said  when  he  arrived  that  he 
felt  as  if  he  belonged  to  Sicily,  and  each  day  Sicily  and 
he  seemed  to  Hermione  to  be  more  dear  to  each  other, 
more  suited  to  each  other.  With  a  loving  woman's  fond- 
ness, which  breeds  fancies  deliciously  absurd,  laugh- 
ably touching,  she  thought  of  Sicily  as  having  wanted 
this  son  of  hers  who  was  not  in  her  bosom,  as  sinking 
into  a  golden  calm  of  satisfaction  now  that  he  was  there, 
hearing  her  "  Pastorale,"  wandering  upon  her  mountain- 
sides, filling  his  nostrils  with  the  scent  of  her  orange 
blossoms,  swimming  through  the  liquid  silver  of  her 
cherishing  seas. 

"I  think  Sicily's  very  glad  that  you  are  here,"  she 
82 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

said  to  him  on  one  morning  of  peculiar  radiance,  when 
there  was  a  freshness  as  of  the  world's  first  day  in  the 
air,  and  the  shining  on  the  sea  was  as  the  shining  that 
came  in  answer  to  the  words — "Let  there  be  light!" 

In  her  worship,  however,  Hermione  was  not  wholly 
blind.  Because  of  the  wakefulness  of  her  powerful 
heart  her  powerful  mind  did  not  cease  to  be  busy,  but 
its  work  was  supplementary  to  the  work  of  her  heart. 
She  had  realized  in  London  that  the  man  she  loved  was 
not  a  clever  man,  that  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
in  his  intellect.  In  Sicily  she  did  not  cease  from  real- 
izing this,  but  she  felt  about  it  differently.  In  Sicily 
she  actually  loved  and  rejoiced  in  Delarey's  mental 
shortcomings  because  they  seemed  to  make  for  fresh- 
ness, for  boyishness,  to  link  him  more  closely  with  the 
spring  in  their  Eden.  She  adored  in  him  something 
that  was  pagan,  some  spirit  that  seemed  to  shine  on 
her  from  a  dancing,  playful,  light-hearted  world.  And 
here  in  Sicily  she  presently  grew  to  know  that  she 
would  be  a  little  saddened  were  her  husband  to  change, 
to  grow  more  thoughtful,  more  like  herself.  She  had 
spoken  to  Artois  of  possible  development  in  Maurice,  of 
what  she  might  do  for  him,  and  at  first,  just  at  first, 
she  had  instinctively  exerted  her  influence  over  him  to 
bring  him  nearer  to  her  subtle  ways  of  thought.  And 
he  had  eagerly  striven  to  respond,  stirred  by  his  love 
for  her,  and  his  reverence — not  a  very  clever,  but  cer- 
tainly a  very  affectionate  reverence — for  her  brilliant 
qualities  of  brain.  In  those  very  first  days  together, 
isolated  in  their  eyrie  of  the  mountains,  Hermione  had 
let  herself  go — as  she  herself  would  have  said.  In  her 
perfect  happiness  she  felt  that  her  mind  was  on  fire 
because  her  heart  was  at  peace.  Wakeful,  but  not 
anxious,  love  woke  imagination.  The  stirring  of  spring 
in  this  delicious  land  stirred  all  her  eager  faculties,  and 
almost  as  naturally  as  a  bird  pours  forth  its  treasure 
of  music  she  poured  forth  her  treasure,  not  only  of  love 
83 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

but  of  thought.  For  in  such  a  nature  as  hers  love 
prompts  thought,  not  stifles  it.  In  their  long  moun- 
tain walks,  in  their  rides  on  muleback  to  distant  villages, 
hidden  in  the  recesses,  or  perched  upon  the  crests  of 
the  rocks,  in  their  quiet  hours  under  the  oak-trees  when 
the  noon  wrapped  all  things  in  its  cloak  of  gold,  or  on 
the  terrace  when  the  stars  came  out,  and  the  shepherds 
led  their  flocks  down  to  the  valleys  with  little  happy 
tunes,  Hermione  gave  out  all  the  sensitive  thoughts, 
desires,  aspirations,  all  the  wonder,  all  the  rest  that 
beauty  and  solitude  and  nearness  to  nature  in  this  isle 
of  the  south  woke  in  her.  She  did  not  fear  to  be  sub- 
tle, she  did  not  fear  to  be  trivial.  Everything  she 
noticed  she  spoke  of,  everything  that  the  things  she 
noticed  suggested  to  her,  she  related.  The  sound  of 
the  morning  breeze  in  the  olive-trees  seemed  to  her  dif- 
ferent from  the  sound  of  the  breeze  of  evening.  She 
tried  to  make  Maurice  hear,  with  her,  the  changing  of 
the  music,  to  make  him  listen,  as  she  listened,  to  every 
sound,  not  only  with  the  ears  but  with  the  imagination. 
The  flush  of  the  almond  blossoms  upon  the  lower  slopes 
of  the  hills  about  Marechiaro,  a  virginal  tint  of  joy  against 
gray  walls,  gray  rocks,  made  her  look  into  the  soul  of 
the  spring  as  her  first  lover  alone  looks  into  the  soul 
of  a  maiden.  She  asked  Maurice  to  look  with  her  into 
that  place  of  dreams,  and  to  ponder  with  her  over  the 
mystery  of  the  everlasting  renewal  of  life.  The  sight 
of  the  sea  took  her  away  into  a  fairy-land  of  thought. 
Far  down  below,  seen  over  rocks  and  tree -tops  and 
downward  falling  mountain  flanks,  it  spread  away  tow- 
ards Africa  in  a  plain  that  seemed  to  slope  upward  to 
a  horizon-line  immensely  distant.  Often  it  was  empty 
of  ships,  but  when  a  sail  came,  like  a  feather  on  the 
blue,  moving  imperceptibly,  growing  clearer,  then  fad- 
ing until  taken  softly  by  eternity — that  was  Hermione's 
feeling — that  sail  was  to  her  like  a  voice  from  the  worlds 
we  never  know,  but  can  imagine,  some  of  us,  worlds  of 
84 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

mystery  that  is  not  sad,  and  of  joys  elusive  but  in- 
effable, sweet  and  strange  as  the  cry  of  echo  at  twi- 
light, when  the  first  shadows  clasp  each  other  by  the 
hand,  and  the  horn  of  the  little  moon  floats  with  a  shy 
radiance  out  of  its  hiding-place  in  the  bosom  of  the 
sky.  She  tried  to  take  Maurice  with  her  whence  the 
sail  came,  whither  it  went.  She  saw  Sicily  perhaps  as  it 
was,  but  also  as  she  was.  She  felt  the  spring  in  Sicily, 
but  not  only  as  that  spring,  spring  of  one  year,  but  as 
all  the  springs  that  have  dawned  on  loving  women,  and 
laughed  with  green  growing  things  about  their  feet. 
Her  passionate  imagination  now  threw  gossamers  before, 
now  drew  gossamers  away  from  a  holy  of  holies  that 
no  man  could  ever  enter.  And  she  tried  to  make  that 
holy  of  holies  Maurice's  habitual  sitting-room.  It  was 
a  tender,  glorious  attempt  to  compass  the  impossible. 

All  this  was  at  first.  But  Hermione  was  generally 
too  clear-brained  to  be  long  tricked  even  by  her  own  en- 
thusiasms. She  soon  began  to  understand  that  though 
Maurice  might  wish  to  see,  to  feel  all  things  as  she 
saw  and  felt  them,  his  effort  to  do  so  was  but  a  gallant 
attempt  of  love  in  a  man  who  thought  he  had  married 
his  superior.  Really  his  outlook  on  Sicily  and  the 
spring  was  naturally  far  more  like  Gaspare's.  She 
watched  in  a  rapture  of  wonder,  enjoyed  with  a  passion 
of  gratitude.  But  Gaspare  was  in  and  was  of  all  that 
she  was  wondering  about,  thanking  God  for,  part  of 
the  phenomenon,  a  dancer  in  the  exquisite  tarantella. 
And  Maurice,  too,  on  that  first  day  had  he  not  obeyed 
Sebastiano's  call?  Soon  she  knew  that  when  she  had 
sat  alone  on  the  terrace  seat,  and  seen  the  dancers  los- 
ing all  thought  of  time  and  the  hour  in  the  joy  of  their 
moving  bodies,  while  tiers  was  still,  the  scene  had  been 
prophetic.  In  that  moment  Maurice  had  instinctively 
taken  his  place  in  the  mask  of  the  spring  and  she  hers. 
Their  bodies  had  uttered  their  minds.  She  was  the 
passionate  watcher,  but  he  was  the  passionate  per- 
85 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

former.  Therefore  she  was  his  audience.  She  had 
travelled  out  to  be  in  Sicily,  but  he,  without  knowing  it, 
had  travelled  out  to  be  Sicily. 

There  was  a  great  difference  between  them,  but,  hav- 
ing realized  it  thoroughly,  Hermione  was  able  not  to 
regret  but  to  delight  in  it.  She  did  not  wish  to  change 
her  lover,  and  she  soon  understood  that  were  Maurice 
to  see  with  her  eyes,  hear  with  her  ears,  and  under- 
stand with  her  heart,  he  would  be  completely  changed, 
and  into  something  not  natural,  like  a  performing  dog 
or  a  child  prodigy,  something  that  rouses  perhaps  amaze- 
ment, combined  too  often  with  a  faint  disgust.  And 
ceasing  to  desire  she  ceased  to  endeavor. 

"I  shall  never  develop  Maurice,"  she  thought,  remem- 
bering her  conversation  with  Artois.  "And,  thank  God, 
I  don't  want  to  now." 

And  then  she  set  herself  to  watch  her  Sicilian,  as  she 
loved  to  call  him,  enjoying  the  spring  in  Sicily  in  his 
own  way,  dancing  the  tarantella  with  surely  the  spirit 
of  eternal  youth.  He  had,  she  thought,  heard  the  call 
of  the  blood  and  responded  to  it  fully  and  openly,  fear- 
less and  unashamed.  Day  by  day,  seeing  his  boyish 
happiness  in  this  life  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea,  she 
laughed  at  the  creeping,  momentary  sense  of  appre- 
hension that  had  been  roused  in  her  during  her  con- 
versation with  Artois  upon  the  Thames  Embankment. 
Artois  had  said  that  he  distrusted  what  he  loved.  That 
was  the  flaw  in  an  over-intellectual  man.  The  mind 
was  too  alert,  too  restless,  dogging  the  steps  of  the 
heart  like  a  spy,  troubling  the  heart  with  an  eternal  un- 
easiness. But  she  could  trust  where  she  loved.  Maurice 
was  open  as  a  boy  in  these  early  days  in  the  garden  of 
paradise.  He  danced  the  tarantella  while  she  watched 
him,  then  threw  himself  down  beside  her,  laughing,  to  rest. 

The  strain  of  Sicilian  blood  that  was  in  him  worked 
in  him  curiously,  making  her  sometimes  marvel  at  the 
mysterious  power  of  race,  at  the  stubborn  and  almost 
86 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

tyrannical  domination  some  dead  have  over  some  liv- 
ing, those  who  are  dust  over  those  who  are  quick  with 
animation  and  passion.  Everything  that  was  connect- 
ed with  Sicily  and  with  Sicilian  life  not  only  reached 
his  senses  and  sank  easily  into  his  heart,  but  seemed 
also  to  rouse  his  mind  to  an  activity  that  astonished 
her.  In  connection  with  Sicily  he  showed  a  swiftness, 
almost  a  cleverness,  she  never  noted  in  him  when  things 
Sicilian  were  not  in  question. 

For  instance,  like  most  Englishmen,  Maurice  had  no 
great  talent  for  languages.  He  spoke  French  fairly 
well,  having  had  a  French  nurse  when  he  was  a  child, 
and  his  mother  had  taught  him  a  little  Italian.  But 
till  now  he  had  never  had  any  desire  to  be  proficient  in 
any  language  except  his  own.  Hermione,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  gifted  as  a  linguist,  loving  languages  and 
learning  them  easily.  Yet  Maurice  picked  up — in  his 
case  the  expression,  usually  ridiculous,  was  absolutely 
applicable  —  Sicilian  with  a  readiness  that  seemed  to 
Hermione  almost  miraculous.  He  showed  no  delight 
in  the  musical  beauty  of  Italian.  What  he  wanted, 
and  what  his  mind — or  was  it  rather  what  his  ears  and 
his  tongue  and  his  lips? — took,  and  held  and  revelled 
in,  was  the  Sicilian  dialect  spoken  by  Lucrezia  and  Gas- 
pare when  they  were  together,  spoken  by  the  peasants 
of  Marechiaro  and  of  the  mountains.  To  Hermione 
Gaspare  had  always  talked  Italian,  incorrect,  but  still 
Italian,  and  she  spoke  no  dialect,  although  she  could 
often  guess  at  what  the  Sicilians  meant  when  they  ad- 
dressed her  in  their  vigorous  but  uncouth  jargon,  dif- 
ferent from  Italian  almost  as  Gaelic  is  from  English. 
But  Maurice  very  soon  began  to  speak  a  few  words  of 
Sicilian.  Hermione  laughed  at  him  and  discouraged 
him  jokingly,  telling  him  that  he  must  learn  Italian 
thoroughly,  the  language  of  love,  the  most  melodious 
language  in  the  world. 

"Italian!"  he  said.  "What's  the  use  of  it?  I  want 
87 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

to  talk  to  the  people.  A  grammar!  I  won't  open  it. 
Gaspare's  my  professor.  Gaspare!  Gaspare!" 

Gaspare  came  rushing  bareheaded  to  them  in  the  sun. 

"The  signora  says  I'm  to  learn  Italian,  but  I  say 
that  I've  Sicilian  blood  in  my  veins  and  must  talk  as 
you  do." 

"But  I,  signore,  can  speak  Italian!"  said  Gaspare, 
with  twinkling  pride. 

"As  a  bear  dances.  No,  professor,  you  and  I,  we'll 
be  good  patriots.  We'll  speak  in  our  mother -tongue. 
You  rascal,  you  know  we've  begun  already." 

And  looking  mischievously  at  Hermione,  he  began 
to  sing  in  a  loud,  warm  voice: 

"Cu  Gabbi  e  Jochi  e  Parti  e  Mascarati, 
Si  fa  lu  giubileu  universali. 
Tiripi-tumpiti,  tumpiti,  tumpiti, 
Milli  cardubuli  'n  culu  ti  puncinul" 

Gaspare  burst  into  a  roar  of  delighted  laughter. 

"It's  the  tarantella  over  again,"  Hermione  said. 
"You're  a  hopeless  Sicilian.  I  give  you  up." 

That  same  day  she  said  to  him: 

"You  love  the  peasants,  don't  you,  Maurice?" 

"Yes.     Are  you  surprised?" 

"No;  at  least  I'm  not  surprised  at  your  loving  them." 

"Well,  then,  Hermione?" 

"Perhaps  a  little  at  the  way  you  love  them." 

"What  way's  that?" 

"Almost  as  they  love  each  other — that's  to  say,  when 
they  love  each  other  at  all.  Gaspare  now!  I  believe 
you  feel  more  as  if  he  were  a  young  brother  of  yours 
than  as  if  he  were  your  servant." 

"Perhaps  I  do.  Gaspare  is  terrible,  a  regular  donna1 
of  a  boy  in  spite  of  all  his  mischief  and  fun.  You  should 
hear  him  talk  of  you.  He'd  die  for  his  padrona." 

1  The  Sicilians  use  the  word  "donna"  to  express  the  mean- 
ing we  corivey  by  the  word  "trump." 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  believe  he  would.  In  love,  the  love  that  means 
being  in  love,  I  think  Sicilians,  though  tremendously 
jealous,  are  very  fickle,  but  if  they  take  a  devotion  to 
any  one,  without  being  in  love,  they're  rocks.  It's  a 
splendid  quality." 

"  If  they've  got  faults,  I  love  their  faults,"  he  said. 
"They're  a  lovable  race." 

"Praising  yourself!"  she  said,  laughing  at  him,  but 
with  tender  eyes. 

"Myself?" 

"Never  mind.     What  is  it,  Gaspare?" 

Gaspare  had  come  upon  the  terrace,  his  eyes  shining 
with  happiness  and  a  box  under  his  arm. 

"The  signore  knows." 

"  Revolver  practice,"  said  Maurice.  "  I  promised  him 
he  should  have  a  try  to-day.  We're  going  to  a  place 
close  by  on  the  mountain.  He's  warned  off  Ciccio  and 
his  goats.  Got  the  paper,  Gaspare?" 

Gaspare  pointed  to  a  bulging  pocket. 

"Enough  to  write  a  novel  on.  Well — will  you  come, 
Hermione?" 

"It's  too  hot  in  the  sun,  and  I  know  you're  going 
into  the  eye  of  the  sun." 

"You  see,  it's  the  best  place  up  at  the  top.  There's 
that  stone  wall,  and — " 

"I'll  stay  here  and  listen  to  your  music." 

They  went  off  together,  climbing  swiftly  upward  into 
the  heart  of  the  gold,  and  singing  as  they  went: 

"Ciao,  ciao,  ciao, 
Morettina  bella,  ciao — " 

Their  voices  died  away,  and  with  them  the  dry  noise 
of  stones  falling  downward  from  their  feet  on  the  sun- 
•  baked  mountain -side.  Hermione  sat  still  on  the  seat 
by  the  ravine. 

"Ciao,  ciao,  ciao  I" 
89 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  thought  of  the  young  peasants  going  off  to  be 
soldiers,  and  singing  that  song  to  keep  their  hearts  up. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  Gaspare  would  have  to  go.  He  was 
the  eldest  of  his  family,  and  had  brothers.  Maurice  sang 
that  song  like  a  Sicilian  lad.  She  thought,  she  began 
to  think,  that  even  the  timbre  of  his  voice  was  Sicilian. 
There  was  the  warm,  and  yet  plaintive,  sometimes  al- 
most whining  sound  in  it  that  she  had  often  heard 
coming  up  from  the  vineyards  and  the  olive  groves. 
Why  was  she  always  comparing  him  with  the  peasants  ? 
He  was  not  of  their  rank.  She  had  met  many  Sicilians 
of  the  nobility  in  Palermo — princes,  senators,  young 
men  of  fashion,  who  gambled  and  danced  and  drove  in 
the  Giardino  Inglese.  Maurice  did  not  remind  her  at  all 
of  them.  No,  it  was  of  the  Sicilian  peasants  that  he 
reminded  her,  and  yet  he  was  a  gentleman.  She  won- 
dered what  Maurice's  grandmother  had  been  like.  She 
was  long  since  dead.  Maurice  had  never  seen  her.  Yet 
how  alive  she,  and  perhaps  brothers  of  hers,  and  their 
children,  were  in  him,  how  almost  miraculously  alive! 
Things  that  had  doubtless  stirred  in  them — instincts, 
desires,  repugnances,  joys — were  stirring  in  him,  domi- 
nating his  English  inheritance.  It  was  like  a  new  birth 
in  the  sun  of  Sicily,  and  she  was  assisting  at  it.  Very, 
very  strange  it  was.  And  strange,  too,  it  was  to  be  so 
near  to  one  so  different  from  herself,  to  be  joined  to  him 
by  the  greatest  of  all  links,  the  link  that  is  forged  by 
the  free  will  of  a  man  and  a  woman.  Again,  in  thought, 
she  went  back  to  her  comparison  of  things  in  him  with 
things  in  the  peasants  of  Sicily.  She  remembered  that 
she  had  once  heard  a  brilliant  man,  not  a  Sicilian,  say 
of  them,  "  With  all  their  faults,  and  they  are  many,  every 
Sicilian,  even  though  he  wear  the  long  cap  and  live  in 
a  hut  with  the  pigs,  is  a  gentleman."  So  the  peasant,  if 
there  were  peasant  in  Maurice,  could  never  disturb,  never 
offend  her.  And  she  loved  the  primitive  man  in  him 
and  in  all  men  who  had  it.  There  was  a  good  deal  that 
90 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  primitive  in  her.  She  never  called  herself  demo- 
crat, socialist,  radical,  never  christened  herself  with  any 
name  to  describe  her  mental  leanings,  but  she  knew  that, 
for  a  well-born  woman — and  she  was  that,  child  of  an 
old  English  family  of  pure  blood  and  high  traditions — 
she  was  remarkably  indifferent  to  rank,  its  claims,  its 
pride.  She  felt  absolutely  "in  her  bones,"  as  she  would 
have  said,  that  all  men  and  women  are  just  human 
beings,  brothers  and  sisters  of  a  great  family.  In  judg- 
ing of  individuals  she  could  never  be  influenced  by  any- 
thing except  physical  qualities,  and  qualities  of  the  heart 
and  mind,  qualities  that  might  belong  to  any  man.  She 
was  affected  by  habits,  manners — what  woman  of  breed- 
ing is  not  ? — but  even  these  could  scarcely  warp  her  judg- 
ment if  they  covered  anything  fine.  She  could  find  gold 
beneath  mud  and  forget  the  mud. 

Maurice  was  like  the  peasants,  not  like  the  Palermitan 
aristocracy.  He  was  near  to  the  breast  of  Sicily,  of 
that  mother  of  many  nations,  who  had  come  to  con- 
quer, and  had  fought,  and  bled,  and  died,  or  been  ex- 
pelled, but  had  left  indefaceable  traces  behind  them, 
traces  of  Norman  of  Greek  of  Arab.  He  was  no  cos- 
mopolitan with  characteristics  blurred;  he  was  of  the 
soil.  Well,  she  loved  the  soil  dearly.  The  almond 
blossomed  from  it.  The  olive  gave  its  fruit,  and  the 
vine  its  generous  blood,  and  the  orange  its  gold,  at  the 
word  of  the  soil,  the  dear,  warm  earth  of  Sicily.  She 
thought  of  Maurice's  warm  hands,  brown  now  as  Gas- 
pare's. How  she  loved  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  that 
shone  with  the  lustre  of  the  south!  Had  not  this  soil, 
in  very  truth,  given  those  hands  and  those  eyes  to  her  ? 
She  felt  that  it  had.  She  loved  it  more  for  the  gift.  She 
had  reaped  and  garnered  in  her  blessed  Sicilian  harvest. 

Lucrezia  came  to  her  round  the  angle  of  the  cottage, 

knowing  she  was  alone.     Lucrezia  was  mending  a  hole 

in  a  sock  for  Gaspare.     Now  she  sat  down  on  the  seat 

under  the  window,  divided  from  Hermione  by  the  ter- 

7  91 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

race,  but  able  to  see  her,  to  feel  companionship.  Had 
the  padrone  been  there  Lucrezia  would  not  have  vent- 
ured to  come.  Gaspare  had  often  explained  to  her  her 
very  humble  position  in  the  household.  But  Gaspare 
and  the  padrone  were  away  on  the  mountain-top,  and 
she  could  not  resist  being  near  to  her  padrona,  for  whom 
she  already  felt  a  very  real  affection  and  admiration. 

"Is  it  a  big  hole,  Lucrezia?"  said  Hermione,  smiling 
at  her. 

"Si,  signora." 

Lucrezia  put  her  thumb  through  it,  holding  it  up  on 
her  fist. 

"Gaspare's  holes  are  always  big." 

She  spoke  as  if  in  praise. 

"Gaspare  is  strong,"  she  added.  "But  Sebastiano 
is  stronger." 

As  she  said  the  last  words  a  dreamy  look  came  into 
her  round  face,  and  she  dropped  the  hand  that  held  the 
stocking  into  her  lap. 

"Sebastiano  is  hard  like  the  rocks,  signora." 

' '  H  ard  -hearted ,  Lucrezia . ' ' 

Lucrezia  said  nothing. 

"You  like  Sebastiano,  Lucrezia?" 

Lucrezia  reddened  under  her  brown  skin. 

"Si,  signora." 

"So  do  I.     He's  always  been  a  good  friend  of  mine." 

Lucrezia  shifted  along  the  seat  until  she  was  nearly 
opposite  to  where  Hermione  was  sitting. 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Twenty-five,  signora." 

"  I  suppose  he  will  be  marrying  soon,  won't  he  ?  The 
men  all  marry  young  round  about  Marechiaro." 

Lucrezia  began  to  darn. 

"His  father,  Chinetti  Urbano,  wishes  him  to  marry 
at  once.  It  is  better  for  a  man." 

"You  understand  men,  Lucrezia?" 

"Si,  signora.     They  are  all  alike." 
92 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"And  what  are  they  like?" 

"Oh,  signora,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  They  must 
have  their  own  way  and  we  must  not  think  to  have  ours. 
They  must  roam  where  they  like,  love  where  they 
choose,  day  or  night,  and  we  must  sit  in  the  doorway 
and  get  to  bed  at  dark,  and  not  bother  where  they've 
been  or  what  they've  done.  They  say  we've  no  right, 
except  one  or  two.  There's  Francesco,  to  be  sure. 
He's  a  lamb  with  Maria.  She  can  sit  with  her  face  to 
the  street.  But  she  wouldn't  sit  any  other  way,  and 
he  knows  it.  But  the  rest!  Eh,  gik!" 

"You  don't  think  much  of  men,  Lucrezia!" 

"Oh,  signora,  they're  just  as  God  made  them.  They 
can't  help  it  any  more  than  we  can  help — " 

She  stopped  and  pursed  her  lips  suddenly,  as  if  check- 
ing some  words  that  were  almost  on  them. 

"Lucrezia,  come  here  and  sit  by  me." 

Lucrezia  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  doubtful  pleasure 
and  surprise. 

"Signora?" 

"Come  here." 

Lucrezia  got  up  and  came  slowly  to  the  seat  by  the 
ravine.  Hermione  took  her  hand. 

"You  like  Sebastiano  very  much,  don't  you?" 

Lucrezia  hung  her  head. 

"Si,  signora,"  she  whispered. 

"Do  you  think  he'd  be  good  to  a  woman  if  she  loved 
him?" 

"I  shouldn't  care.     Bad  or  good,  I'd — I'd — 

Suddenly,  with  a  sort  of  childish  violence,  she  put 
her  two  hands  on  Hermione's  arms. 

"I  want  Sebastiano,  signora;  I  want  him!"  she  cried. 
"I've  prayed  to  the  Madonna  della  Rocca  to  give  him 
to  me;  all  last  year  I've  prayed,  and  this.  D'you  think 
the  Madonna's  going  to  do  it?  Do  you?  Do  you?" 

Heat  came  out  of  her  two  hands,  and  heat  flashed  in 
her  eyes.  Her  broad  bosom  heaved,  and  her  lips,  still 
93 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

parted  when  she  had  done  speaking,  seemed  to  interro- 
gate Hermione  fiercely  in  the  silence.  Before  Her- 
mione  could  reply  two  sounds  came  to  them:  from  be- 
low in  the  ravine  the  distant  drone  of  the  ceramella, 
from  above  on  the  mountain  -  top  the  dry  crack  of  a 
pistol-shot. 

Swiftly  Lucrezia  turned  and  looked  downward,  but 
Hermione  looked  upward  towards  the  bare  flank  that 
rose  behind  the  cottage. 

"It's  Sebastiano,  signora." 

The  ceramella  droned  on,  moving  slowly  with  its 
player  on  the  hidden  path  beneath  the  olive-trees. 

A  second  pistol-shot  rang  out  sharply. 

"Go  down  and  meet  him,  Lucrezia." 

"May  I — may  I,  really,  signora?" 

"Yes;  go  quickly." 

Lucrezia  bent  down  and  kissed  her  padrona's  hand. 

"Bacio  la  mano,  bacio  la  mano  a  Lei!" 

Then,  bareheaded,  she  went  out  from  the  awning  into 
the  glare  of  the  sunshine,  passed  through  the  ruined 
archway,  and  disappeared  among  the  rocks.  She  had 
gone  to  her  music.  Hermione  stayed  to  listen  to  hers, 
the  crack  of  the  pistol  up  there  near  the  blue  sky. 

Sebastiano  was  playing  the  tune  she  loved,  the  "  Pas- 
torale," but  to-day  she  did  not  heed  it.  Indeed,  now 
that  she  was  left  alone  she  was  not  conscious  that  she 
heard  it.  Her  heart  was  on  the  hill-top  near  the  blue. 

Again  and  again  the  shots  rang  out.  It  seemed  to  Her- 
mione that  she  knew  which  were  fired  by  Maurice  and 
which  by  Gaspare,  and  she  whispered  to  herself  "That's 
Maurice!"  when  she  fancied  one  was  his.  Presently  she 
was  aware  of  some  slight  change  and  wondered  what  it 
was.  Something  had  ceased,  and  its  cessation  recalled 
her  mind  to  her  surroundings.  She  looked  round  her, 
then  down  to  the  ravine,  and  then  at  once  she  under- 
stood. There  was  no  more  music  from  the  ceramella. 
Lucrezia  had  met  Sebastiano  under  the  olives.  That 
94 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  certain.  Hermione  smiled.  Her  woman's  imag- 
ination pictured  easily  enough  why  the  player  had 
stopped.  She  hoped  Lucrezia  was  happy.  Her  first 
words,  still  more  her  manner,  had  shown  Hermione  the 
depth  of  her  heart.  There  was  fire  there,  fire  that 
burned  before  a  shrine  when  she  prayed  to  the  Ma- 
donna della  Rocca.  She  was  ready  even  to  be  badly 
treated  if  only  she  might  have  Sebastiano.  It  seemed 
to  be  all  one  to  her.  She  had  no  illusions,  but  her  heart 
knew  what  it  needed. 

Crack  went  the  pistol  up  on  the  mountain-top. 

"That's  not  Maurice!"  Hermione  thought. 

There  was  another  report,  then  another. 

"That  last  one  was  Maurice!" 

Lucrezia  did  not  seem  even  to  expect  a  man  to  be 
true  and  faithful.  Perhaps  she  knew  the  Sicilian  char- 
acter too  well.  Hermione  lifted  her  face  up  and  looked 
towards  the  mountain.  Her  mind  had  gone  once  more 
to  the  Thames  Embankment.  As  once  she  had  men- 
tally put  Gaspare  beside  Artois,  so  now  she  mentally 
put  Lucrezia.  Lucrezia  distrusted  the  south,  and  she 
was  of  it.  Men  must  be  as  God  had  made  them,  she 
said,  and  evidently  she  thought  that  God  had  made 
them  to  run  wild,  careless  of  woman's  feelings,  careless 
of  everything  save  their  own  vagrant  desires.  The 
tarantella — that  was  the  dance  of  the  soil  here,  the 
dance  of  the  blood.  And  in  the  tarantella  each  of  the 
dancers  seemed  governed  by  his  own  sweet  will,  pos- 
sessed by  a  merry,  mad  devil,  whose  promptings  he 
followed  with  a  sort  of  gracious  and  charming  violence, 
giving  himself  up  joyously,  eagerly,  utterly — to  what  ? 
To  his  whim.  Was  the  tarantella  an  allegory  of  life 
here  ?  How  strangely  well  Maurice  had  danced  it  on  that 
first  day  of  their  arrival.  She  felt  again  that  sense  of 
separation  which  brought  with  it  a  faint  and  creeping 
melancholy. 

"Crack!     Crack!" 

95 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  got  up  from  the  seat  by  the  ravine.  Suddenly 
the  sound  of  the  firing  was  distressing  to  her,  almost 
sinister,  and  she  liked  Lucrezia's  music  better.  For  it 
suggested  tenderness  of  the  soil,  and  tenderness  of  faith, 
and  a  glory  of  antique  things  both  pagan  and  Christian. 
But  the  reiterated  pistol-shots  suggested  violence,  death, 
ugly  things. 

"Maurice!"  she  called,  going  out  into  the  sun  and  gaz- 
ing up  towards  the  mountain-top.  "Maurice!" 

The  pistol  made  reply.  They  had  not  heard  her. 
They  were  too  far  or  were  too  intent  upon  their  sport 
to  hear. 

"Maurice!"  she  called  again,  in  a  louder  voice,  almost 
as  a  person  calls  for  help.  Another  pistol  -  shot  an- 
swered her,  mocking  at  her  in  the  sun.  Then  she  heard 
a  distant  peal  of  laughter.  It  did  not  seem  to  her  to  be 
either  Maurice's  or  Gaspare's  laughter.  It  was  like  the 
laughter  of  something  she  could  not  personify,  of  some 
jeering  spirit  of  the  mountain.  It  died  away  at  last, 
and  she  stood  there,  shivering  in  the  sunshine. 

' '  Signora !     Signora ! ' ' 

Sebastiano's  lusty  voice  came  to  her  from  below. 
She  turned  and  saw  him  standing  with  Lucrezia  on  the 
terrace,  and  his  arm  was  round  Lucrezia's  waist.  He 
took  off  his  cap  and  waved  it,  but  he  still  kept  one  arm 
round  Lucrezia. 

Hermione  hesitated,  looking  once  more  towards  the 
mountain  -  top.  But  something  within  her  held  her 
back  from  climbing  up  to  the  distant  laughter,  a  feel- 
ing, an  idiotic  feeling  she  called  it  to  herself  afterwards. 
She  had  shivered  in  the  sunshine,  but  it  was  not  a  feel- 
ing of  fear. 

"Am  I  wanted  up  there?" 

That  was  what  something  within  her  said.  And  the 
answer  was  made  by  her  body.  She  turned  and  began 
to  descend  towards  the  terrace. 

And  at  that  moment,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she 
96 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  conscious  of  a  little  stab  of  pain  such  as  she  had 
never  known  before.  It  was  pain  of  the  mind  and  of 
the  heart,  and  yet  it  was  like  bodily  pain,  too.  It  made 
her  angry  with  herself.  It  was  like  a  betrayal,  a  be- 
trayal of  herself  by  her  own  intellect,  she  thought. 

She  stopped  once  more  on  the  mountain-side. 

"Am  I  going  to  be  ridiculous?"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Am  I  going  to  be  one  of  the  women  I  despise?" 

Just  then  she  realized  that  love  may  become  a  tyrant, 
ministering  to  the  soul  with  persecutions. 


VI 

SEBASTIANO  took  his  arm  from  Lucrezia's  waist  as 
Hermione  came  down  to  the  terrace,  and  said: 

"  Buona  sera,  signora.  Is  the  signore  coming  down 
yet?" 

He  flung  out  his  arm  towards  the  mountain. 

"I   don't  know,   Sebastiano.     Why?" 

"I've  come  with  a  message  for  him." 

"Not  for  Lucrezia?" 

Sebastiano  laughed  boldly,  but  Lucrezia,  blushing 
red,  disappeared  into  the  kitchen. 

"Don't  play  with  her,  Sebastiano,"  said  Hermione. 
"She's  a  good  girl." 

"I  know  that,  signora." 

"She  deserves  to  be  well  treated." 

Sebastiano  went  over  to  the  terrace  wall,  looked  into 
the  ravine,  turned  round,  and  came  back. 

"Who's  treating  Lucrezia  badly,  signora?" 

"I  did  not  say  anybody  was." 

"The  girls  in  Marechiaro  can  take  care  of  themselves, 
signora.  You  don't  know  them  as  I  do." 

"D'you  think  any  woman  can  take  care  of  herself, 
Sebastiano?" 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  laughed,  but  said  noth- 
ing. Hermione  sat  down.  She  had  a  desire  to-day, 
after  Lucrezia's  conversation  with  her,  to  get  at  the 
Sicilian  man's  point  of  view  in  regard  to  women. 

"  Don't  you  think  women  want  to  be  protected  ?"  she 
asked. 

"What  from,  signora?" 

98 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

There  was  still  laughter  in  his  eyes. 

"Not  from  us,  anyway,"  he  added.  "Lucrezia  there 
— she  wants  me  for  her  husband.  All  Marechiaro  knows 
it." 

Hermione  felt  that  under  the  circumstances  it  was 
useless  to  blush  for  Lucrezia,  useless  to  meet  blatant 
frankness  with  sensitive  delicacy. 

"Do  you  want  Lucrezia  for  your  wife?"  she  said. 

"Well,  signora,  I'm  strong.  A  stick  or  a  knife  in 
my  hand  and  no  man  can  touch  me.  You've  never 
seen  me  do  the  scherma  con  coltello?  One  day  I'll 
show  you  with  Gaspare.  And  I  can  play  better  even 
than  the  men  from  Bronte  on  the  ceramella.  You've 
heard  me.  Lucrezia  knows  I  can  have  any  girl  I  like." 

There  was  a  simplicity  in  his  immense  superiority  to 
women  that  robbed  it  of  offensiveness  and  almost  made 
Hermione  laugh.  In  it,  too,  she  felt  the  touch  of  the 
East.  Arabs  had  been  in  Sicily  and  left  their  traces 
there,  not  only  in  the  buildings  of  Sicily,  but  in  its  peo- 
ple's songs,  and  in  the  treatment  of  the  women  by  the 
men. 

"And  are  you  going  to  choose  Lucrezia?"  she  asked, 
gravely. 

"Signora,  I  wasn't  sure.  But  yesterday,  I  had  a 
letter  from  Messina.  They  want  me  there.  I've  got 
a  job  that'll  pay  me  well  to  go  to  the  Lipari  Islands 
with  a  cargo." 

"Are  you  a  sailor,  too?" 

"Signora,  I  can  do  anything." 

"And  will  you  be  long  away?" 

"Who  knows,  signora?  But  I  told  Lucrezia  to-day, 
and  when  she  cried  I  told  her  something  else.  We  are 
'  promised.'  " 

"I  am  glad,"  Hermione  said,  holding  out  her  hand 
to  him. 

He  took  it  in  an  iron  grip. 

"  Be  very  good  to  her  when  you're  married,  won't  you  ?" 
99 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Oh,  she'll  be  all  right  with  me,"  he  answered,  care- 
lessly. "And  I  won't  give  her  the  slap  in  the  face  on 
the  wedding-day." 

"  Hi — yi — yi — yi — yi!" 

There  was  a  shrill  cry  from  the  mountain,  and  Maurice 
and  Gaspare  came  leaping  down,  scattering  the  stones, 
the  revolvers  still  in  their  hands. 

"Look,  signora,  look!"  cried  Gaspare,  pulling  a  sheet 
of  paper  from  his  pocket  and  holding  it  proudly  up. 
"Do  you  see  the  holes?  One,  two,  three — " 

He  began  to  count. 

"And  I  made  five.     Didn't  I,  signore?" 

"You're  a  dead  shot,  Gasparino.  Did  you  hear  us, 
Hermione?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "But  you  didn't  hear  me." 

"You?     Did  you  call?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  Sebastiano's  got  a  message  for  you,"  Hermione  said. 

She  could  not  tell  him  now  the  absurd  impulse  that 
had  made  her  call  him. 

"What's  the  message,  Sebastiano?"  asked  Maurice,  in 
his  stumbling  Sicilian-Italian  that  was  very  imperfect, 
but  that  nevertheless  had  already  the  true  accent  of 
the  peasants  about  Marechiaro. 

"Signore,  there  will  be  a  moon  to-night." 

"Gia.     Lo  so." 

"Are  you  sleepy,  signorino?" 

He  touched  his  eyes  with  his  sinewy  hands  and  made 
his  face  look  drowsy.  Maurice  laughed. 

"No." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  being  naked  in  the  sea  at  night? 
But  you  need  not  enter  it.  Are  you  afraid  of  sleeping 
at  dawn  in  a  cave  upon  the  sands?" 

"What  is  it  all?"  asked  Maurice.  "Gaspare,  I  under- 
stand you  best." 

"I  know,"  said  Gaspare,  joyously.  "It's  the  fish- 
100 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

ing.  Nito  has  sent.  I  told  him  to.  Is  it  Nito,  Se- 
bastiano?" 

Sebastiano  nodded.  Gaspare  turned  eagerly  to  Maurice. 

"Oh,  signore,  you  must  come,  you  will  come!" 

"Where?     In  a  boat?" 

"No.  We  go  down  to  the  shore,  to  Isola  Bella.  We 
take  food,  wine,  red  wine,  and  a  net.  Between  twenty- 
two  and  twenty-three  o'clock  is  the  time  to  begin.  And 
the  sea  must  be  calm.  Is  the  sea  calm  to-day,  Se- 
bastiano?" 

"Like  that." 

Sebastiano  moved  his  hand  to  and  fro  in  the  air, 
keeping  it  absolutely  level.  Gaspare  continued  to  ex- 
plain with  gathering  excitement  and  persuasiveness,  talk- 
ing to  his  master  as  much  by  gesture  as  by  the  words 
that  Maurice  could  only  partially  understand. 

"The  sea  is  calm.  Nito  has  the  net,  but  he  will  not 
go  into  the  sea.  Per  Dio,  he  is  birbante.  He  will  say 
he  has  the  rheumatism,  I  know,  and  walk  like  that." 
(Gaspare  hobbled  to  and  fro  before  them,  making  a 
face  of  acute  suffering.)  "  He  has  asked  for  me.  Hasn't 
Nito  asked  for  me,  Sebastiano?" 

Here  Gaspare  made  a  grimace  at  Sebastiano,  who 
answered,  calmly: 

"  Yes,  he  has  asked  for  you  to  come  with  the  padrone." 

"I  knew  it.  Then  I  shall  undress.  I  shall  take  one 
end  of  the  net  while  Nito  holds  the  other,  and  I  shall 
go  out  into  the  sea.  I  shall  go  up  to  here."  (He  put 
his  hands  up  to  his  chin,  stretching  his  neck  like  one 
avoiding  a  rising  wave.)  "And  I  shall  wade,  you'll 
see! — and  if  I  come  to  a  hole  I  shall  swim.  I  can  swim 
for  hours,  all  day  if  I  choose." 

"And  all  night  too?"  said  Hermione,  smiling  at  his 
excitement. 

"Davvero!  But  at  night  I  must  drink  wine  to  keep 
out  the  cold.  I  come  out  like  this."  (He  shivered 
violently,  making  his  teeth  chatter.)  "Then  I  drink 

10 1 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  glass  and  I  am  warm,  and  when  they  have  taken  the 
fish  I  go  in  again.  We  fish  all  along  the  shore  from 
Isola  Bella  round  by  the  point  there,  where  there's  the 
Casa  delle  Sirene,  and  to  the  caves  beyond  the  Caffe 
Berardi.  And  when  we've  got  enough — many  fish — at 
dawn  we  sleep  on  the  sand.  And  when  the  sun  is  up 
Carmela  will  take  the  fish  and  make  a  frittura,  and  we 
all  eat  it  and  drink  more  wine,  and  then — " 

"And  then — you're  ready  for  the  Campo  Santo?" 
said  Hermione. 

"No,  signora.  Then  we  will  dance  the  tarantella, 
and  come  home  up  the  mountain  singing,  'O  sole  mio!' 
and  'A  mezzanotte  a  punto,'  and  the  song  of  the  Mafioso, 
and — " 

Hermione  began  to  laugh  unrestrainedly.  Gaspare, 
by  his  voice,  his  face,  his  gestures,  had  made  them 
assist  at  a  veritable  orgie  of  labor,  feasting,  sleep,  and 
mirth,  all  mingled  together  and  chasing  one  another  like 
performers  in  a  revel.  Even  his  suggestion  of  slumber 
on  the  sands  was  violent,  as  if  they  were  to  sleep  with 
a  kind  of  fury  of  excitement  and  determination. 

"  Signora!"  he  cried,  staring  as  if  ready  to  be  offended. 

Then  he  looked  at  Maurice,  who  was  laughing,  too, 
threw  himself  back  against  the  wall,  opened  his  mouth, 
and  joined  in  with  all  his  heart.  But  suddenly  he  stop- 
ped. His  face  changed,  became  very  serious. 

"I  may  go,  signora?"  he  asked.  "No  one  can  fish 
as  I  can.  The  others  will  not  go  in  far,  and  they  soon 
get  cold  and  want  to  put  on  their  clothes.  And  the 
padrone!  I  must  take  care  of  the  padrone!  Guglielmo, 
the  contadino,  will  sleep  in  the  house,  I  know.  Shall  I 
call  him?  Guglielmo!  Guglielmo!" 

He  vanished  like  a  flash,  they  scarcely  knew  in  what 
direction. 

"  He's  alive!"  exclaimed  Maurice.  "  By  Jove,  he's  alive, 
that  boy!  Glorious,  glorious  life!  Oh,  there's  some- 
thing here  that — " 

102 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  broke  off,  looked  down  at  the  broad  sea  shimmer- 
ing in  the  sun,  then  said: 

"The  sun,  the  sea,  the  music,  the  people,  the  liberty — 
it  goes  to  my  head,  it  intoxicates  me." 

"You'll  go  to-night?"  she  said. 

"D'you  mind  if  I  do?" 

"Mind?  No.  I  want  you  to  go.  I  want  you  to 
revel  in  this  happy  time,  this  splendid,  innocent,  golden 
time.  And  to-morrow  we'll  watch  for  you,  Lucrezia 
and  I,  watch  for  you  down  there  on  the  path.  But — 
you'll  bring  us  some  of  the  fish,  Maurice  ?  You  won't 
forget  us?" 

"Forget  you!"  he  said.     "You  shall  have  all — " 

"No,  no.  Only  the  little  fish,  the  babies  that  Car- 
mela  rejects  from  the  frittura." 

"I'll  go  into  the  sea  with  Gaspare,"  said  Maurice. 

"I'm  sure  you  will,  and  farther  out  even  than  he  does." 

"Ah,  he'll  never  allow  that.    He'd  swim  to  Africa  first!" 

That  night,  at  twenty-one  o'clock,  Hermione  and  Lu- 
crezia stood  under  the  arch,  and  watched  Maurice  and 
Gaspare  springing  down  the  mountain-side  as  if  in  seven- 
leagued  boots.  Soon  they  disappeared  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  ravine,  but  for  some  time  their  loud  voices 
could  be  heard  singing  lustily: 

"Ciao,  ciao,  ciao, 
Morettina  bella  ciao, 
Prima  di  partire 
Un  bacio  ti  voglio  da'; 
Un  bacio  al  papa, 
Un  bacio  alia  mamma, 
Cinquanta  alia  mia  fidanzata, 
Che  vado  a  far  solda'." 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man,  Lucrezia,"  said  Hermione, 
when  the  voices  at  length  died  away  towards  the  sea. 

"Signora,  we  were  made  for  the  men.     They  weren't 
made  for  us.     But  I  like  being  a  girl." 
103 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"To-night.     I  know  why,  Lucrezia." 

And  then  the  padrona  and  the  cameriera  sat  down 
together  on  the  terrace  under  the  stars,  and  talked 
together  about  the  man  the  cameriera  loved,  and  his 
exceeding  glory. 

Meanwhile,-  Maurice  and  Gaspare  were  giving  them- 
selves joyously  to  the  glory  of  the  night.  The  glamour  of 
the  moon,  which  lay  full  upon  the  terrace  where  the  two 
women  sat,  was  softened,  changed  to  a  shadowy  magic, 
in  the  ravine  where  the  trees  grew  thickly,  but  the  pil- 
grims did  not  lower  their  voices  in  obedience  to  the 
message  of  the  twilight  of  the  night.  The  joy  of  life 
which  was  leaping  within  them  defied  the  subtle  sug- 
gestions, of  mystery,  was  careless  because  it  was  trium- 
phant, and  all  the  way  down  to  the  sea  they  sang,  Gas- 
pare changing  the  song  when  it  suited  his  mood  to  do 
so;  and  Maurice,  as  in  the  tarantella,  imitating  him  with 
the  swiftness  that  is  born  of  sympathy.  For  to-night, 
despite  their  different  ages,  ranks,  ways  of  life,  their 
gayety  linked  them  together,  ruled  out  the  differences, 
and  made  them  closely  akin,  as  they  had  been  in  Her- 
mione's  eyes  when  they  danced  upon  the  terrace.  They 
did  not  watch  the  night.  They  were  living  too  strong- 
ly to  be  watchful.  The  spirit  of  the  dancing  faun  was 
upon  them,  and  guided  them  down  among  the  rocks 
and  the  olive-trees,  across  the  Messina  road,  white 
under  the  moon,  to  the  stony  beach  of  Isola  Bella, 
where  Nito  was  waiting  for  them  with  the  net. 

Nito  was  not  alone.  He  had  brought  friends  of  his 
and  of  Gaspare's,  and  a  boy  who  staggered  proudly 
beneath  a  pannier  filled  with  bread  and  cheese,  oranges 
and  apples,  and  dark  blocks  of  a  mysterious  dolce. 
The  wine-bottles  were  not  intrusted  to  him,  but  were 
in  the  care  of  Giulio,  one  of  the  donkey-boys  who  had 
carried  up  the  luggage  from  the  station.  Gaspare  and 
his  padrone  were  welcomed  with  a  lifting  of  hats,  and 
for  a  moment  there  was  a  silence,  while  the  little  group 
104 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

regarded  the  "Inglese"  searchingly.  Had  Maurice  felt 
any  strangeness,  any  aloofness,  the  sharp  and  sensitive 
Sicilians  would  have  at  once  been  conscious  of  it,  and 
light-hearted  gayety  might  have  given  way  to  gravity, 
though  not  to  awkwardness.  But  he  felt,  and  there- 
fore showed,  none.  His  soft  hat  cocked  at  an  impudent 
angle  over  his  sparkling,  dark  eyes,  his  laughing  lips,  his 
easy,  eager  manner,  and  his  pleasant  familiarity  with 
Gaspare  at  once  reassured  everybody,  and  when  he 
cried  out,  "Ciao,  amici,  ciao!"  and  waved  a  pair  of 
bathing  drawers  towards  the  sea,  indicating  that  he 
was  prepared  to  be  the  first  to  go  in  with  the  net, 
there  was  a  general  laugh,  and  a  babel  of  talk  broke 
forth  —  talk  which  he  did  not  fully  understand,  yet 
which  did  not  make  him  feel  even  for  a  moment  a 
stranger. 

Gaspare  at  once  took  charge  of  the  proceedings  as 
one  born  to  be  a  leader  of  fishermen.  He  began  by 
ordering  wine  to  be  poured  into  the  one  glass  provided, 
placed  it  in  Maurice's  hand,  and  smiled  proudly  at  his 
pupil's  quick  "Alia  vostra  salute!"  before  tossing  it 
off.  Then  each  one  in  turn,  with  an  "Alia  sua  salute!" 
to  Maurice,  took  a  drink  from  the  great,  leather  bottle; 
and  Nito,  shaking  out  his  long  coil  of  net,  declared  that 
it  was  time  to  get  to  work. 

Gaspare  cast  a  sly  glance  at  Maurice,  warning  him  to 
be  prepared  for  a  comedy,  and  Maurice  at  once  remem- 
bered the  scene  on  the  terrace  when  Gaspare  had  de- 
scribed Nito's  "birbante"  character,  and  looked  out 
for  rheumatics. 

"Who  goes  into  the  sea,  Nito?"  asked  Gaspare,  very 
seriously. 

Nito's  wrinkled  and  weather-beaten  face  assumed 
an  expression  of  surprise. 

"Who   goes   into   the  sea!"    he   ejaculated.     "Why, 
don't  we  all  know  who  likes  wading,  and  can  always 
tell  the  best  places  for  the  fish?" 
105 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  paused,  then  as  Gaspare  said  nothing,  and  the 
others,  who  had  received  a  warning  sign  from  him, 
stood  round  with  deliberately  vacant  faces,  he  added, 
clapping  Gaspare  on  the  shoulder,  and  holding  out  one 
end  of  the  net: 

"Off  with  your  clothes,  compare,  and  we  will  soon 
have  a  fine  frittura  for  Carmela." 

But  Gaspare  shook  his  head. 

"In  summer  I  don't  mind.  But  this  is  early  in  the 
year,  and,  besides — 

"Early  in  the  year!  Who  told  me  the  signore  dis- 
tinto  would — " 

"And  besides,  compare,  I've  got  the  stomach-ache." 

He  deftly  doubled  himself  up  and  writhed,  while  the 
lips  of  the  others  twitched  with  suppressed  amusement. 

"Comparedro,  I  don't  believe  it!" 

"Haven't  I,  signorino?"  cried  Gaspare,  undoubling 
himself,  pointing  to  his  middleman,  and  staring  hard 
at  Maurice.  v 

"Si,  si!     E  vero,  e  vero!"  cried  Maurice. 

"I've  been  eating  Zampaglione,  and  I  am  full.  If  I 
go  into  the  sea  to-night  I  shall  die." 

"Mamma  mia!"  ejaculated  Nito,  throwing  up  his 
hands  towards  the  stars. 

He  dared  not  give  the  lie  to  the  "signore  distinto," 
yet  he  had  no  trust  in  Gaspare's  word,  and  had  gained 
no  sort  of  conviction  from  his  eloquent  wri things. 

"You  must  go  in,  Nito,"  said  Gaspare. 

"I — Madonna!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not?"  cried  Nito,  in  a  plaintive  whine  that 
was  almost  feminine.  "I  go  into  the  sea  with  my 
rheumatism!" 

Abruptly  one  of  his  legs  gave  way,  and  he  stood  be- 
fore them  in  a  crooked  attitude. 

"Signore,"  he  said  to  Maurice.  "I  would  go  into  the 
sea,  I  would  stay  there  all  night,  for  I  love  it,  but 
106 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Dr.  Marini  has  forbidden  me  to  enter  it.  See  how  I 
walk!" 

And  he  began  to  hobble  up  and  down  exactly  as  Gas- 
pare had  on  the  terrace,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at 
Maurice  all  the  time  to  see  whether  his  deception  was 
working  well.  Gaspare,  seeing  that  Nito's  attention 
was  for  the  moment  concentrated,  slipped  away  behind 
a  boat  that  was  drawn  up  on  the  beach;  and  Maurice, 
guessing  what  he  was  doing,  endeavored  to  make  Nito 
understand  his  sympathy. 

"Molto  forte — molto  dolore?"  he  said. 

"Si,  signore!" 

And  Nito  burst  forth  into  a  vehement  account  of  his 
sufferings,  accompanied  by  pantomime. 

"It  takes  me  in  the  night,  signore!  Madonna,  it  is 
like  rats  gnawing  at  my  legs,  and  nothing  will  stop  it. 
Pancrazia  —  she  is  my  wife,  signore  —  Pancrazia,  she 
gets  out  of  bed  and  she  heats  oil  to  rub  it  on,  but  she 
might  as  well  put  it  on  the  top  of  Etna  for  all  the  good 
it  does  me.  And  there  I  lie  like  a — " 

"  Hi — yi — yi — yi — yi!" 

A  wild  shriek  rent  the  air,  and  Gaspare,  clad  in  a 
pair  of  bathing  drawers,  bounded  out  from  behind  the 
boat,  gave  Nito  a  cuff  on  the  cheek,  executed  some  steps 
of  the  tarantella,  whirled  round,  snatched  up  one  end 
of  the  net,  and  cried: 

"Al  mare,  al  mare!" 

Nito's  rheumatism  was  no  more.  His  bent  leg 
straightened  itself  as  if  by  magic,  and  he  returned  Gas- 
pare's cuff  by  an  affectionate  slap  on  his  bare  shoulder, 
exclaiming  to  Maurice: 

"Isn't  he  terribile,  signore?     Isn't  he  terribile?" 

Nito  lifted  up  the  other  end  of  the  net  and  they  all 
went  down  to  the  shore. 

That  night  it  seemed  to  Delarey  as  if  Sicily  drew  him 
closer  to  her  breast.  He  did  not  know  why  he  had 
now  for  the  first  time  the  sensation  that  at  last  he  was 
s  107 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

really  in  his  natural  place,  was  really  one  with  the  soil 
from  which  an  ancestor  of  his  had  sprung,  and  with  the 
people  who  had  been  her  people.  That  Hermione's 
absence  had  anything  to  do  with  his  almost  wild  sense 
of  freedom  did  not  occur  to  him.  All  he  knew  was  this, 
that  alone  among  these  Sicilian  fishermen  in  the  night, 
not  understanding  much  of  what  they  said,  guessing 
at  their  jokes,  and  sharing  in  their  laughter,  without 
always  knowing  what  had  provoked  it,  he  was  perfectly 
at  home,  perfectly  happy. 

Gaspare  went  into  the  sea,  wading  carefully  through 
the  silver  waters,  and  Maurice,  from  the  shore,  watched 
his  slowly  moving  form,  taking  a  lesson  which  would  be 
useful  to  him  later.  The  coast-line  looked  enchanted  in 
the  glory  of  the  moon,  in  the  warm  silence  of  the  night, 
but  the  little  group  of  men  upon  the  shore  scarcely 
thought  of  its  enchantment.  They  felt  it,  perhaps, 
sometimes  faintly  in  their  gayety,  but  they  did  not 
savor  its  wonder  and  its  mystery  as  Hermione  would 
have  savored  them  had  she  been  there. 

The  naked  form  of  Gaspare,  as  he  waded  far  out  in 
the  shallow  sea,  was  like  the  form  of  a  dream  creature 
rising  out  of  waves  of  a  dream.  When  he  called  to 
them  across  the  silver  surely  something  of  the  magic 
of  the  night  was  caught  and  echoed  in  his  voice.  When 
he  lifted  the  net,  and  its  black  and  dripping  meshes 
slipped  down  from  his  ghostly  hands  into  the  ghostly 
movement  that  was  flickering  about  him,  and  the  circles 
tipped  with  light  widened  towards  sea  and  shore,  there 
was  a  miracle  of  delicate  and  fantastic  beauty  delivered 
up  tenderly  like  a  marvellous  gift  to  the  wanderers  of 
the  dark  hours.  But  Sicily  scarcely  wonders  at  Sicily. 
Gaspare  was  intent  only  on  the  catching  of  fish,  and 
his  companions  smote  the  night  with  their  jokes  and 
their  merry,  almost  riotous  laughter. 

The  night  wore  on.  Presently  they  left  Isola  Bella, 
crossed  a  stony  spit  of  land,  and  came  into  a  second  and 
108 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

narrower  bay,  divided  by  a  turmoil  of  jagged  rocks  and 
a  bold  promontory  covered  with  stunted  olive-trees, 
cactus,  and  seed-sown  earth  plots,  from  the  wide  sweep 
of  coast  that  melted  into  the  dimness  towards  Messina. 
Gathered  together  on  the  little  stones  of  the  beach,  in 
the  shadow  of  some  drawn-up  fishing-boats,  they  took 
stock  of  the  fish  that  lay  shining  in  the  basket,  and 
broke  their  fast  on  bread  and  cheese  and  more  draughts 
from  the  generous  wine-bottle. 

Gaspare  was  dripping,  and  his  thin  body  shook  as  he 
gulped  down  the  wine. 

"Basta  Gaspare!"  Maurice  said  to  him.  "  Youmustn't 
go  in  any  more." 

"No,  no,  signore,  non  basta!  I  can  fish  all  night. 
Once  the  wine  has  warmed  me,  I  can — " 

"But  I  want  to  try  it." 

"  Oh,  signore,  what  would  the  signora  say  ?  You  are 
a  stranger.  You  will  take  cold,  and  then  the  signora 
will  blame  me  and  say  I  did  not  take  proper  care  of  my 
padrone." 

But  Delarey  was  determined.  He  stripped  off  his 
clothes,  put  on  his  bathing  drawers,  took  up  the  net, 
and,  carefully  directed  by  the  admiring  though  pro- 
testing Gaspare,  he  waded  into  the  sea. 

For  a  moment  he  shuddered  as  the  calm  water  rose 
round  him.  Then,  English  fashion,  he  dipped  under,with  a 
splash  that  brought  a  roar  of  laughter  to  him  from  the  shore. 

"Meglio  cosi!"  he  cried,  coming  up  again  in  the  moon- 
light. "Adesso  sto  bene!" 

The  plunge  had  made  him  suddenly  feel  tremendously 
young  and  triumphant,  reckless  with  a  happiness  that 
thrilled  with  audacity.  As  he  waded  out  he  began  to  sing 
in  a  loud  voice: 

"Ciao,  ciao,  ciao, 
Morettina  bella  ciao, 
Prima  di  partire 
Un  bacio  ti  voglio  da'." 
109 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Gaspare,  who  was  hastily  dressing  by  the  boats,  called 
out  to  him  that  his  singing  would  frighten  away  the 
fish,  and  he  was  obediently  silent.  He  imprisoned  the 
song  in  his  heart,  but  that  went  on  singing  bravely.  As 
he  waded  farther  he  felt  splendid,  as  if  he  were  a  lord  of 
life  and  of  the  sea.  The  water,  now  warm  to  him,  seemed 
to  be  embracing  him  as  it  crept  upward  towards  his  throat. 
Nature  was  clasping  him  with  amorous  arms.  Nature 
was  taking  him  for  her  own. 

"Nature,  nature!"  he  said  to  himself.  "That's  why 
I'm  so  gloriously  happy  here,  because  I'm  being  right 
down  natural." 

His  mind  made  an  abrupt  turn,  like  a  coursed  hare, 
and  he  suddenly  found  himself  thinking  of  the  night  in 
London,  when  he  had  sat  in  the  restaurant  with  Her- 
mione  and  Artois  and  listened  to  their  talk,  reverently 
listened.  Now,  as  the  net  tugged  at  his  hand,  influenced 
by  the  resisting  sea,  that  talk,  as  he  remembered  it, 
struck  him  as  unnatural,  as  useless,  and  the  thoughts 
which  he  had  then  admired  and  wondered  at,  as  com- 
plicated and  extraordinary.  Something  in  him  said, 
"That's  all  unnatural."  The  touch  of  the  water  about 
his  body,  the  light  of  the  moon  upon  him,  the  breath  of 
the  air  in  his  wet  face  drove  out  his  reverence  for  what 
he  called  "intellectuality,"  and  something  savage  got 
hold  of  his  soul  and  shook  it,  as  if  to  wake  up  the  sleep- 
ing self  within  him,  the  self  that  was  Sicilian. 

As  he  waded  in  the  water,  coming  ever  nearer  to  the 
jagged  rocks  that  shut  out  from  his  sight  the  wide  sea 
and  something  else,  he  felt  as  if  thinking  and  living  were 
in  opposition,  as  if  the  one  were  destructive  of  the 
other;  and  the  desire  to  be  clever,  to  be  talented,  which 
had  often  assailed  him  since  he  had  known,  and  es- 
pecially since  he  had  loved,  Hermione,  died  out  of  him, 
and  he  found  himself  vaguely  pitying  Artois,  and  almost 
despising  the  career  and  the  fame  of  a  writer.  What 
did  thinking  matter?  The  great  thing  was  to  live,  to 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

live  with  your  body,  out-of-doors,  close  to  nature,  some- 
what as  the  savages  live.  When  he  waded  to  shore  for 
the  first  time,  and  saw,  as  the  net  was  hauled  in,  the 
fish  he  had  caught  gleaming  and  leaping  in  the  light,  he 
could  have  shouted  like  a  boy. 

He  seized  the  net  once  more,  but  Gaspare,  now 
clothed,  took  hold  of  him  by  the  arm  with  a  familiarity 
that  had  in  it  nothing  disrespectful. 

"Signore,  basta,  basta!     Giulio  will  go  in  now." 

"Si!  si!"  cried  Giulio,  beginning  to  tug  at  his  waist- 
coat buttons. 

"Once  more,  Gaspare!"  said  Maurice.     "Only  once!" 

"But  if  you  take  cold,  signorino,  the  signora — " 

"I  sha'n't  catch  cold.     Only  once!" 

He  broke  away,  laughing,  from  Gaspare,  and  was 
swiftly  in  the  sea.  The  Sicilians  looked  at  him  with 
admiration. 

"E'  veramente  piu  Siciliano  di  noi!"  exclaimed  Nito. 

The  others  murmured  their  assent.  Gaspare  glowed 
with  pride  in  his  pupil. 

"I  shall  make  the  signore  one  of  us,"  he  said,  as  he 
deftly  let  out  the  coils  of  the  net. 

"But  how  long  is  he  going  to  stay?"  asked  Nito. 
"Will  he  not  soon  be  going  back  to  his  own  country?" 

For  a  moment  Gaspare's  countenance  fell. 

"  When  the  heat  comes,"  he  began,  doubtfully.  Then 
he  cheered  up. 

"Perhaps  he  will  take  me  with  him  to  England,"  he 
said.  . 

This  time  Maurice  waded  with  the  net  into  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks  out  of  the  light  of  the  moon.  The  night 
was  waning,  and  a  slight  chill  began  to  creep  into  the 
air.  A  little  breeze,  too,  sighed  over  the  sea,  ruffling  its 
surface,  died  away,  then  softly  came  again.  As  he 
moved  into  the  darkness  Maurice  was  conscious  that  the 
buoyancy  of  his  spirits  received  a  slight  check.  The 
night  seemed  suddenly  to  have  changed,  to  have  be- 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

come  more  mysterious.  He  began  to  feel  its  mystery 
now,  to  be  aware  of  the  strangeness  of  being  out  in  the 
sea  alone  at  such  an  hour.  Upon  the  shore  he  saw  the 
forms  of  his  companions,  but  they  looked  remote  and 
phantom-like.  He  did  not  hear  their  voices.  Perhaps 
the  slow  approach  of  dawn  was  beginning  to  affect  them, 
and  the  little  wind  that  was  springing  up  chilled  their 
merriment  and  struck  them  to  silence.  Before  him  the 
dense  blackness  of  the  rocks  rose  like  a  grotesque  wall 
carved  in  diabolic  shapes,  and  as  he  stared  at  these 
shapes  he  had  an  odd  fancy  that  they  were  living  things, 
and  that  they  were  watching  him  at  his  labor.  He  could 
not  get  this  idea,  that  he  was  being  watched,  out  of  his 
head,  and  for  a  moment  he  forgot  about  the  fish,  and 
stood  still,  staring  at  the  monsters,  whose  bulky  forms 
reared  themselves  up  into  the  moonlight  from  which 
they  banished  him. 

' '  Signore !     Signorino ! ' ' 

There  came  to  him  a  cry  of  protest  from  the  shore. 
He  started,  moved  forward  with  the  net,  and  went 
under  water.  He  had  stepped  into  a  deep  hole.  Still 
holding  fast  to  the  net,  he  came  up  to  the  surface,  shook 
his  head,  and  struck  out.  As  he  did  so  he  heard  an- 
other cry,  sharp  yet  musical.  But  this  cry  did  not  come 
from  the  beach  where  his  companions  were  gathered. 
It  rose  from  the  blackness  of  the  rocks  close  to  him,  and 
it  sounded  like  the  cry  of  a  woman.  He  winked  his  eyes 
to  get  the  water  out  of  them,  and  swam  for  the  rocks, 
heedless  of  his  duty  as  a  fisherman.  But  the  net  im- 
peded him,  and  again  there  was  a  shout  from  the  shore: 

"Signorino!     Signorino!     E'  pazzo  Lei?" 

Reluctantly  he  turned  and  swam  back  to  the  shallow 
water.  But  when  his  feet  touched  bottom  he  stood 
still.  That  cry  of  a  woman  from  the  mystery  of  the 
rocks  had  startled,  had  fascinated  his  ears.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  that  he  must  be  near  to  that  Casa  delle 
Sirene,  whose  little  light  he  had  seen  from  the  terrace 

112 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

of  the  priest's  house  on  his  first  evening  in  Sicily.  He 
longed  to  hear  that  woman's  voice  again.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  thought  of  it  as  the  voice  of  a  siren,  of  one  of 
those  beings  of  enchantment  who  lure  men  on  to  their 
destruction,  and  he  listened  eagerly,  almost  passionate- 
ly, while  the  ruffled  water  eddied  softly  about  his 
breast.  But  no  music  stole  to  him  from  the  blackness 
of  the  rocks,  and  at  last  he  turned  slowly  and  waded  to 
the  shore. 

He  was  met  with  merry  protests.  Nito  declared  that 
the  net  had  nearly  been  torn  out  of  his  hands.  Gas- 
pare, half  undressed  to  go  to  his  rescue,  anxiously  in- 
quired if  he  had  come  to  any  harm.  The  rocks  were 
sharp  as  razors  near  the  point,  and  he  might  have  cut 
himself  to  pieces  upon  them.  He  apologized  to  Nito 
and  showed  Gaspare  that  he  was  uninjured.  Then, 
while  the  others  began  to  count  the  fish,  he  went  to  the 
boats  to  put  on  his  clothes,  accompanied  by  Gaspare. 
"Why  did  you  swim  towards  the  rocks,  signorino?" 
asked  the  boy,  looking  at  him  with  a  sharp  curiosity. 

Delarey  hesitated  for  a  moment.  He  was  inclined, 
he  scarcely  knew  why,  to  keep  silence  about  the  cry  he 
had  heard.  Yet  he  wanted  to  ask  Gaspare  something. 
"Gaspare,"  he  said,  at  last,  as  they  reached  the  boats, 
"was  any  one  of  you  on  the  rocks  over  there  just 
now?" 

He  had  forgotten  to  number  his  companions  when  he 
reached  the  shore.     Perhaps  one  was  missing,  and  had 
wandered  towards  the  point  to  watch  him  fishing. 
"No,  signore.     Why  do  you  ask?" 
Again  Delarey  hesitated.     Then  he  said: 
"I  heard  some  one  call  out  to  me  there." 
He  began  to  rub  his  wet  body  with  a  towel. 
"Call!     What  did  they  call?" 
"Nothing;  no  words.     Some  one  cried  out." 
"At  this  hour!     Who  should  be  there,  signore?" 
The  action  of  the  rough  towel  upon  his  body  brought 
"3 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  glow  of  warmth  to  Delarey,  and  the  sense  of  mystery 
began  to  depart  from  his  mind. 

"Perhaps  it  was  a  fisherman,"  he  said. 

"They  do  not  fish  from  there,  signore.  It  must  have 
been  me  you  heard.  When  you  went  under  the  water 
I  cried  out.  Drink  some  wine,  signorino." 

He  held  a  glass  full  of  wine  to  Delarey's  lips.  De- 
larey drank. 

"  But  you've  got  a  man's  voice,  Gaspare!"  he  said,  put- 
ting down  the  glass  and  beginning  to  get  into  his  clothes. 

"Per  Dio!  Would  you  have  me  squeak  like  a  wom- 
an, signore?" 

Delarey  laughed  and  said  no  more.  But  he  knew  it 
was  not  Gaspare's  voice  he  had  heard. 

The  net  was  drawn  up  now  for  the  last  time,  and  as 
soon  as  Delarey  had  dressed  they  set  out  to  walk  to  the 
caves  on  the  farther  side  of  the  rocks,  where  they  meant 
to  sleep  till  Carmela  was  about  and  ready  to  make  the 
frittura.  To  reach  them  they  had  to  clamber  up  from 
the  beach  to  the  Messina  road,  mount  a  hill,  and  de- 
scend to  the  Caffe  Berardi,  a  small,  isolated  shanty 
which  stood  close  to  the  sea,  and  was  used  in  summer- 
time by  bathers  who  wanted  refreshment.  Nito  and 
the  rest  walked  on  in  front,  and  Delarey  followed  a  few 
paces  behind  with  Gaspare.  When  they  reached  the  sum- 
mit of  the  hill  a  great  sweep  of  open  sea  was  disclosed 
to  their  view,  stretching  away  to  the  Straits  of  Messina, 
and  bounded  in  the  far  distance  by  the  vague  outlines 
of  the  Calabriari  Mountains.  Here  the  wind  met  them 
more  sharply,  and  below  them  on  the  pebbles  by  the 
caffe  they  could  see  the  foam  of  breaking  waves.  But 
to  the  right,  and  nearer  to  them,  the  sea  was  still  as  an 
inland  pool,  guarded  by  the  tree-covered  hump  of  land 
on  which  stood  the  house  of  the  sirens.  This  hump, 
which  would  have  been  an  islet  but  for  the  narrow  wall 
of  sheer  rock  which  joined  it  to  the  main-land,  ran  out 
into  the  sea  parallel  to  the  road. 
114 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

On  the  height,  Delarey  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  to 
look  at  the  wide  view,  dim  and  ethereal,  under  the 
dying  moon. 

"Is  that  Calabria?"  he  asked. 

"Si,  signore.  And  there  is  the  caffe.  The  caves  are 
beyond  it.  You  cannot  see  them  from  here.  But  you 
are  not  looking,  signorino!" 

The  boy's  quick  eyes  had  noticed  that  Delarey  was 
glancing  towards  the  tangle  of  trees,  among  which  was 
visible  a  small  section  of  the  gray  wall  of  the  house  of 
the  sirens. 

"How  calm  the  sea  is  there!"  Delarey  said,  swiftly. 

"Si,  signore.  That  is  where  you  can  see  the  light  in 
the  window  from  our  terrace." 

"There's  no  light  now." 

"How  should  there  be?  They  are  asleep.  An- 
diamo?" 

They  followed  the  others,  who  were  now  out  of  sight. 
When  they  reached  the  caves,  Nito  and  the  boys  had  al- 
ready flung  themselves  down  upon  the  sand  and  were 
sleeping.  Gaspare  scooped  out  a  hollow  for  Delarey, 
rolled  up  his  jacket  as  a  pillow  for  his  padrone's  head, 
murmured  a  "Buon  riposo!"  lay  down  near  him,  buried 
his  face  in  his  arms,  and  almost  directly  began  to 
breathe  with  a  regularity  that  told  its  tale  of  youthful, 
happy  slumber. 

It  was  dark  in  the  cave  and  quite  warm.  The  sand 
made  a  comfortable  bed,  and  Delarey  was  luxuriously 
tired  after  the  long  walk  and  the  wading  in  the  sea. 
When  he  lay  down  he  thought  that  he,  too,  would  be 
asleep  in  a  moment,  but  sleep  did  not  come  to  him, 
though  he  closed  his  eyes  in  anticipation  of  it.  His 
mind  was  busy  in  his  weary  body,  and  that  little  cry 
of  a  woman  still  rang  in  his  ears.  He  heard  it  like  a  song 
sung  by  a  mysterious  voice  in  a  place  of  mystery  by 
the  sea.  Soon  he  opened  his  eyes.  Turning  a  little  in 
the  sand,  away  from  his  companions,  he  looked  out 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

from  the  cave,  across  the  sloping  beach  and  the  foam 
of  the  waves,  to  the  darkness  of  trees  on  the  island. 
(So  he  called  the  place  of  the  siren's  house  to  himself 
now,  and  always  hereafter.)  From  the  cave  he  could 
not  see  the  house,  but  only  the  trees,  a  formless,  dim 
mass  that  grew  about  it.  The  monotonous  sound  of 
wave  after  wave  did  not  still  the  cry  in  his  ears,  but 
mingled  with  it,  as  must  have  mingled  with  the  song  of 
the  sirens  to  Ulysses  the  murmur  of  breaking  seas  ever  so 
long  ago.  And  he  thought  of  a  siren  in  the  night  steal- 
ing to  a  hidden  place  in  the  rocks  to  watch  him  as  he  drew 
the  net,  breast  high  in  the  water.  There  was  romance 
in  his  mind  to-night,  new-born  and  strange.  Sicily  had 
put  it  there  with  the  wild  sense  of  youth  and  freedom 
that  still  possessed  him.  Something  seemed  to  call 
him  away  from  this  cave  of  sleep,  to  bid  his  tired  body 
bestir  itself  once  more.  He  looked  at  the  dark  forms 
of  his  comrades,  stretched  in  various  attitudes  of  re- 
pose, and  suddenly  he  knew  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
did  not  want  to  sleep.  He  wanted — what  ?  He  raised 
himself  to  a  sitting  posture,  then  softly  stood  up,  and 
with  infinite  precaution  stole  out  of  the  cave. 

The  coldness  of  the  coming  dawn  took  hold  on  him 
on  the  shore,  and  he  saw  in  the  east  a  mysterious  pallor 
that  was  not  of  the  moon,  and  upon  the  foam  of  the 
waves  a  light  that  was  ghastly  and  that  suggested  in- 
finite weariness  and  sickness.  But  he  did  not  say  this 
to  himself.  He  merely  felt  that  the  night  was  quickly 
departing,  and  that  he  must  hasten  on  his  errand  before 
the  day  came. 

He  was  going  to  search  for  the  woman  who  had  cried 
out  to  him  in  the  sea.  And  he  felt  as  if  she  were  a 
creature  of  the  night,  of  the  moon  and  of  the  shadows, 
and  as  if  he  could  never  hope  to  find  her  in  the  glory  of 
the  day. 


VII 

DEL  ARE  Y  stole  along  the  beach,  walking  lightly  de- 
spite his  fatigue.  He  felt  curiously  excited,  as  if  he 
were  on  the  heels  of  some  adventure.  He  passed  the 
Gaffe  Berardi  almost  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  and  came 
to  the  narrow  strip  of  pebbles  that  edged  the  still  and 
lakelike  water,  protected  by  the  sirens'  isle.  There 
he  paused.  He  meant  to  gain  that  lonely  land,  but  how  ? 
By  the  water  lay  two  or  three  boats,  but  they  were  large 
and  clumsy,  impossible  to  move  without  aid.  Should 
he  climb  up  to  the  Messina  road,  traverse  the  spit  of 
ground  that  led  to  the  rocky  wall,  and  try  to  make  his 
way  across  it?  The  feat  would  be  a  difficult  one,  he 
thought.  But  it  was  not  that  which  deterred  him.  He 
was  impatient  of  delay,  and  the  detour  would  take  time. 
Between  him  and  the  islet  was  the  waterway.  Already 
he  had  been  in  the  sea.  Why  not  go  in  again?  He 
stripped,  packed  his  clothes  into  a  bundle,  tied  roughly 
with  a  rope  made  of  his  handkerchief  and  bootlaces,  and 
waded  in.  For  a  long  way  the  water  was  shallow. 
Only  when  he  was  near  to  the  island  did  it  rise  to  his 
breast,  to  his  throat,  higher  at  last.  Holding  the  bundle 
on  his  head  with  one  hand,  he  struck  out  strongly  and 
soon  touched  bottom  again.  He  scrambled  out,  dressed 
on  a  flat  rock,  then  looked  for  a  path  leading  upward. 

The  ground  was  very  steep,  almost  precipitous,  and 
thickly  covered  with  trees  and  with  undergrowth.  This 
undergrowth  concealed  innumerable  rocks  and  stones 
which  shifted  under  his  feet  and  rolled  down  as  he  began 
to  ascend,  grasping  the  bushes  and  the  branches.  He 
117 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

could  find  no  path.  What  did  it  matter  ?  All  sense  of 
fatigue  had  left  him.  With  the  activity  of  a  cat  he 
mounted.  A  tree  struck  him  across  the  face.  Another 
swept  off  his  hat.  He  felt  that  he  had  antagonists  who 
wished  to  beat  him  back  to  the  sea,  and  his  blood  rose 
against  them.  He  tore  down  a  branch  that  impeded  him, 
broke  it  with  his  strong  hands,  and  flung  it  away  vicious- 
ly. His  teeth  were  set  and  his  nerves  tingled,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  the  almost  angry  joy  of  keen  bodily 
exertion.  The  body — that  was  his  God  to-night.  How 
he  loved  it,  its  health  and  strength,  its  willingness,  its 
capacities!  How  he  gloried  in  it!  It  had  bounded  down 
the  mountain.  It  had  gone  into  the  sea  and  revelled 
there.  It  had  fished  and  swum.  Now  it  mounted  up- 
ward to  discovery,  defying  the  weapons  that  nature 
launched  against  it.  Splendid,  splendid  body! 

He  fought  with  the  trees  and  conquered  them.  His 
trampling  feet  sent  the  stones  leaping  downward  to  be 
drowned  in  the  sea.  His  swift  eyes  found  the  likely 
places  for  a  foothold.  His  sinewy  hands  forced  his 
enemies  to  assist  him  in  the  enterprise  they  hated.  He 
came  out  on  to  the  plateau  at  the  summit  of  the  isl- 
and and  stood  still,  panting,  beside  the  house  that  hid 
there. 

Its  blind,  gray  wall  confronted  him  coldly  in  the  dim- 
ness, one  shuttered  window,  like  a  shut  eye,  concealing 
the  interior,  the  soul  of  the  house  that  lay  inside  its 
body.  In  this  window  must  have  been  set  the  light 
he  had  seen  from  the  terrace.  He  wished  there  were  a 
light  burning  now.  Had  he  swum  across  the  inlet  and 
fought  his  way  up  through  the  wood  only  to  see  a  gray 
wall,  a  shuttered  window  ?  That  cry  had  come  from  the 
rocks,  yet  he  had  been  driven  by  something  within  him 
to  this  house,  connecting — he  knew  not  why — the  cry 
with  it  and  with  the  far-off  light  that  had  been  like  a 
star  caught  in  the  sea.  Now  he  said  to  himself  that  he 
should  have  gone  back  to  the  rocks  and  sought  the 
118 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

siren  there.     Should  he  go  now?     He  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  house. 

"Maju  torna,  maju  veni 
Cu  li  belli  soi  ciureri; 
Oh  chi  pompa  chi  nni  fa; 
Maju  torna,  maju  e  ccal 

"Maju  torna,  maju  vinni, 
Duna  isca  a  li  disinni; 
Vinni  riccu  e  ricchi  fa, 
Maju  viva!     Maju  &  cca!" 

He  heard  a  girl's  voice  singing  near  him,  whether  in- 
side the  house  or  among  the  trees  he  could  not  at  first 
tell.  It  sang  softly  yet  gayly,  as  if  the  sun  were  up  and 
the  world  were  awake,  and  when  it  died  away  Delarey 
felt  as  if  the  singer  must  be  in  the  dawn,  though  he  stood 
still  in  the  night.  He  put  his  ear  to  the  shuttered  win- 
dow and  listened. 

"L'haju;  nun  1'haju?" 

The  voice  was  speaking  now  with  a  sort  of  whimsical 
and  half -pathetic  merriment,  as  if  inclined  to  break  into 
laughter  at  its  own  childish  wistfulness. 

"M'ama;  nun  m'ama?" 

It  broke  off.  He  heard  a  little  laugh.  Then  the 
song  began  again: 

"Maju  viju,  e  maju  cdgghiu, 
Bona  sorti  di  Diu  vogghiu; 
Ciuri  di  maju  c6gghiu  a  la  campia, 
Diu,  pinzaticci  vu  a  la  sorti  mia!" 

The  voice  was  not  in  the  house.  Delarey  was  sure  of 
that  now.  He  was  almost  sure,  too,  that  it  was  the 
same  voice  which  had  cried  out  to  him  from  the  rocks. 
Moving  with  precaution,  he  stole  round  the  house  to  the 
farther  side,  which  looked  out  upon  the  open  sea,  keep- 
ing among  the  trees,  which  grew  thickly  about  the  house 
119 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

on  three  sides,  but  which  left  it  unprotected  to  the  sea- 
winds  on  the  fourth. 

A  girl  was  standing  in  this  open  space,  alone,  looking 
seaward,  with  one  arm  out -stretched,  one  hand  laid 
lightly,  almost  caressingly,  upon  the  gnarled  trunk  of 
a  solitary  old  olive-tree,  the  other  arm  hanging  at  her 
side.  She  was  dressed  in  some  dark,  coarse  stuff,  with 
a  short  skirt,  and  a  red  handkerchief  tied  round  her 
head,  and  seemed  in  the  pale  and  almost  ghastly  light 
in  which  night  and  day  were  drawing  near  to  each 
other  to  be  tall  and  slim  of  waist.  Her  head  was  thrown 
back,  as  if  she  were  drinking  in  the  breeze  that  heralded 
the  dawn — drinking  it  in  like  a  voluptuary. 

Delarey  stood  and  watched  her.  He  could  not  see 
her  face. 

She  spoke  some  words  in  dialect  in  a  clear  voice. 
There  was  no  one  else  visible.  Evidently  she  was  talk- 
ing to  herself.  Presently  she  laughed  again,  and  began 
to  sing  once  more: 

"Maju  viju,  e  maju  cogghiu, 
A  .la  me'casa  guaj  nu'  nni  vdgghiu; 
Ciuri  di  maju  cdgghiu  a  la  campia, 
Oru  ed  argentu  a  la  sacchetta  mia!" 

There  was  an  African  sound  in  the  girl's  voice — a  sound 
of  mystery  that  suggested  heat  and  a  force  that  could  be 
languorous  and  stretch  itself  at  ease.  She  was  singing 
the  song  the  Sicilian  peasant  girls  join  in  on  the  first  of 
May,  when  the  ciuri  di  maju  is  in  blossom,  and  the  young 
countrywomen  go  forth  in  merry  bands  to  pick  the  flower 
of  May,  and,  turning  their  eyes  to  the  wayside  shrine,  or, 
if  there  be  none  near,  to  the  east  and  the  rising  sun,  lift 
their  hands  full  of  the  flowers  above  their  heads,  and, 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  murmur  devoutly: 

"Divina  Pruvidenza,  pruvviditimi; 
Divina  Pruvidenza,  cunsulatimi ; 
Divina  Pruvidenza  e  granni  assai; 
Cu"  teni  fidi  a  Diu,  'un  pirisci  mail" 
I2O 


HER     HEAD    WAS     THROWN    BACK,  AS   IF    SHE    WERE    DRINKING   IN 

THE  BREEZE" 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Delarey  knew  neither  song  nor  custom,  but  his  ears 
were  fascinated  by  the  voice  and  the  melody.  Both 
sounded  remote  and  yet  familiar  to  him,  as  if  once,  in 
some  distant  land — perhaps  of  dreams — he  had  heard 
them,  before.  He  wished  the  girl  to  go  on  singing,  to 
sing  on  and  on  into  the  dawn  while  he  listened  in  his 
hiding-place,  but  she  suddenly  turned  round  and  stood 
looking  towards  him,  as  if  something  had  told  her  that 
she  was  not  alone.  He  kept  quite  still.  He  knew  she 
could  not  see  him,  yet  he  felt  as  if  she  was  aware  that 
he  was  there,  and  instinctively  he  held  his  breath  and 
leaned  backward  into  deeper  shadow.  After  a  minute 
the  girl  took  a  step  forward,  and,  still  staring  in  his 
direction,  called  out: 

"Padre?" 

Then  Delarey  knew  that  it  was  her  voice  that  he  had 
heard  when  he  was  in  the  sea,  and  he  suddenly  changed 
his  desire.  Now  he  no  longer  wished  to  remain  unseen, 
and  without  hesitation  he  came  out  from  the  trees.  The 
girl  stood  where  she  was,  watching  him  as  he  came. 
Her  attitude  showed  neither  surprise  nor  alarm,  and 
when  he  was  close  to  her,  and  could  at  last  see  her  face, 
he  found  that  its  expression  was  one  of  simple,  bold 
questioning.  It  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him  quietly, 
"Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

Delarey  was  not  acquainted  with  the  Arab  type  of  face. 
Had  he  been  he  would  have  at  once  been  struck  by  the 
Eastern  look  in  the  girl's  long,  black  eyes,  by  the  Eastern 
cast  of  her  regular,  slightly  aquiline  features.  Above 
her  eyes  were  thin,  jet-black  eyebrows  that  looked  al- 
most as  if  they  were  painted.  Her  chin  was  full  and  her 
face  oval  in  shape.  She  had  hair  like  Gaspare's,  black- 
brown,  immensely  thick  and  wavy,  with  tiny  feathers 
of  gold  about  the  temples.  She  was  tall,  and  had  the 
contours  of  a  strong  though  graceful  girl  just  blooming 
into  womanhood.  Her  hands  were  as  brown  as  De- 
larey's,  well  shaped,  but  the  hands  of  a  worker.  She 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  perhaps  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  brimful  of  lusty 
life. 

After  a  minute  of  silence  Delarey's  memory  recalled 
some  words  of  Gaspare's,  till  then  forgotten. 

"You  are  Maddalena!"  he  said,  in  Italian. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Si,  signore." 

She  uttered  the  words  softly,  then  fell  into  silence 
again,  staring  at  him  with  her  lustrous  eyes,  that  were 
like  black  jewels. 

"You  live  here  with  Salvatore?" 

She  nodded  once  more  and  began  to  smile,  as  if  with 
pleasure  at  his  knowledge  of  her. 

Delarey  smiled  too,  and  made  with  his  arms  the  mo- 
tion of  swimming.  At  that  she  laughed  outright  and 
broke  into  quick  speech.  She  spoke  vivaciously,  moving 
her  hands  and  her  whole  body.  Delarey  could  not  un- 
derstand much  of  what  she  said,  but  he  caught  the  words 
mare  and  pescatore,  and  by  her  gestures  knew  that  she 
was  telling  him  she  had  been  on  the  rocks  and  had  seen 
his  mishap.  Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  talk  she 
uttered  the  little  cry  of  surprise  or  alarm  which  he  had 
heard  as  he  came  up  above  water,  pointed  to  her  lips  to 
indicate  that  she  had  given  vent  to  it,  and  laughed  again 
with  all  her  heart.  Delarey  laughed  too.  He  felt  happy 
and  at  ease  with  his  siren,  and  was  secretly  amused  at  his 
thought  in  the  sea  of  the  magical  being  full  of  enchant- 
ment who  sang  to  lure  men  to  their  destruction.  This 
girl  was  simply  a  pretty,  but  not  specially  uncommon, 
type  of  the  Sicilian  contadina — young,  gay,  quite  free 
from  timidity,  though  gentle,  full  of  the  joy  of  life  and 
of  the  nascent  passion  of  womanhood,  blossoming  out 
carelessly  in  the  sunshine  of  the  season  of  flowers.  She 
could  sing,  this  island  siren,  but  probably  she  could  not 
read  or  write.  She  could  dance,  could  perhaps  innocently 
give  and  receive  love.  But  there  was  in  her  face,  in  her 
manner,  nothing  deliberately  provocative.  Indeed,  she 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

looked  warmly  pure,  like  a  bright,  eager  young  animal  of 
the  woods,  full  of  a  blithe  readiness  to  enjoy,  full  of  hope 
and  of  unself-conscious  animation. 

Delarey  wondered  why  she  was  not  sleeping,   and 
strove  to  ask  her,  speaking  carefully  his  best  Sicilian, 
and  using  eloquent  gestures,  which  set  her  smiling,  then 
laughing  again.     In  reply  to  him  she  pointed  towards 
the  sea,  then  towards  the  house,  then  towards  the  sea 
once  more.     He  guessed  that  some  fisherman  had  risen 
early  to  go  to  his  work,  and  that  she  had  got  up  to  see 
him  off,  and  had  been  too  wakeful  to  return  to  bed. 
"Niente  piu  sonno!"  he  said,  opening  wide  his  eyes. 
"Niente!     Niente!" 

He  feigned  fatigue.  She  took  his  travesty  seriously, 
and  pointed  to  the  house,  inviting  him  by  gesture  to  go 
in  and  rest  there.  Evidently  she  believed  that,  being  a 
stranger,  he  could  not  speak  or  understand  much  of  her 
language.  He  did  not  even  try  to  undeceive  her.  It 
amused  him  to  watch  her  dumb  show,  for  her  face  spoke 
eloquently  and  her  pretty,  brown  hands  knew  a  language 
that  was  delicious.  He  had  no  longer  any  thought  of 
sleep,  but  he  felt  curious  to  see  the  interior  of  the  cottage, 
and  he  nodded  his  head  in  response  to  her  invitation. 
At  once  she  became  the  hospitable  peasant  hostess.  Her 
eyes  sparkled  with  eagerness  and  pleasure,  and  she  went 
quickly  by  him  to  the  door,  which  stood  half  open, 
pushed  it  back,  and  beckoned  to  him  to  enter. 

He  obeyed  her,  went  in,  and  found  himself  almost  in 
darkness,  for  the  big  windows  on  either  side  of  the  door 
were  shuttered,  and  only  a  tiny  flame,  like  a  spark,  burn- 
ed somewhere  among  the  dense  shadows  of  the  interior 
at  some  distance  from  him.  Pretending  to  be  alarmed 
at  the  obscurity,  he  put  out  his  hand  gropingly,  and  let 
it  light  on  her  arm,  then  slip  down  to  her  warm,  strong 
young  hand. 

"I  am  afraid!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  heard  her  merry  laugh  and  felt  her  trying  to  pull 

9  I23 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

her  hand  away,  but  he  held  it  fast,  prolonging  a  joke  that 
he  found  a  pleasant  one.  In  that  moment  he  was  almost 
as  simple  as  she  was,  obeying  his  impulses  carelessly, 
gayly,  without  a  thought  of  wrong — indeed,  almost  with- 
out thought  at  all.  His  body  was  still  tingling  and  damp 
with  the  sea-water.  Her  face  was  fresh  with  the  sea- 
wind.  He  had  never  felt  more  wholesome  or  as  if  life 
were  a  saner  thing. 

She  dragged  her  hand  out  of  his  at  last;  he  heard  a 
grating  noise,  and  a  faint  light  sputtered  up,  then  grew 
steady  as  she  moved  away  and  set  a  match  to  a  candle, 
shielding  it  from  the  breeze  that  entered  through  the 
open  door  with  her  body. 

"What  a  beautiful  house!"  he  cried,  looking  curiously 
around. 

He  saw  such  a  dwelling  as  one  may  see  in  any  part  of 
Sicily  where  the  inhabitants  are  not  sunk  in  the  direst 
poverty  and  squalor,  a  modest  home  consisting  of  two 
fair-sized  rooms,  one  opening  into  the  other.  In  each 
room  was  a  mighty  bed,  high  and  white,  with  fat  pillows, 
and  a  counterpane  of  many  colors.  At  the  head  of  each 
was  pinned  a  crucifix  and  a  little  picture  of  the  Virgin, 
Maria  Addolorata,  with  a  palm  branch  that  had  been 
blessed,  and  beneath  the  picture  in  the  inner  room  a  tiny 
light,  rather  like  an  English  night-light  near  its  end,  was 
burning.  It  was  this  that  Delarey  had  seen  like  a  spark 
in  the  distance.  At  the  foot  of  each  bed  stood  a  big  box 
of  walnut  wood,  carved  into  arabesques  and  grotesque 
faces.  There  were  a  few  straw  chairs  and  kitchen  uten- 
sils. An  old  gun  stood  in  a  corner  with  a  bundle  of  wood. 
Not  far  off  was  a  pan  of  charcoal.  There  were  also  two 
or  three  common  deal-tables,  on  one  of  which  stood  the 
remains  of  a  meal,  a  big  jar  containing  wine,  a  flat  loaf 
of  coarse  brown  bread,  with  a  knife  lying  beside  it,  some 
green  stuff  in  a  plate,  and  a  slab  of  hard,  yellow  cheese. 

Delarey  was  less  interested  in  these  things  than  in  the 
display  of  photographs, picture-cards,  and  figures  of  saints 
124 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

that  adorned  the  walls,  carefully  arranged  in  patterns 
to  show  to  the  best  advantage.  Here  were  colored  re- 
productions of  actresses  in  languid  attitudes,  of  peasants 
dancing,  of  babies  smiling,  of  elaborate  young  people 
with  carefully  dressed  hair  making  love  with  "Molti 
Saluti!"  "Una  stretta  di  Mano!"  "Mando  un  bacio!" 
"Amicizia  eternal"  and  other  expressions  of  friendship 
and  affection,  scribbled  in  awkward  handwritings  across 
and  around  them.  And  mingled  with  them  were  rep- 
resentations of  saints,  such  as  are  sold  at  the  fairs  and 
festivals  of  Sicily,  and  are  reverently  treasured  by  the 
pious  and  superstitious  contadine;  San  Pancrazio,  Santa 
Leocanda,  the  protector  of  child-bearing  women;  Sant 
Aloe,  the  patron  saint  of  the  beasts  of  burden ;  San  Biagio, 
Santo  Vito,  the  patron  saint  of  dogs;  and  many  others, 
with  the  Bambino,  the  Immacolata,  the  Madonna  di 
Loreto,  the  Madonna  della  Rocca. 

In  the  faint  light  cast  by  the  flickering  candle,  the  faces 
of  saints  and  actresses,  of  smiling  babies,  of  lovers  and 
Madonnas  peered  at  Delarey  as  if  curious  to  know  why 
at  such  an  hour  he  ventured  to  intrude  among  them,  why 
he  thus  dared  to  examine  them  when  all  the  world  was 
sleeping.  He  drew  back  from  them  at  length  and  looked 
again  at  the  great  bed  with  its  fat  pillows  that  stood  in 
the  farther  room  secluded  from  the  sea-breeze.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  a  longing  to  throw  himself  down  and  rest. 

The  girl  smiled  at  him  with  sympathy. 

"That  is  my  bed,"  she  said,  simply.  "Lie  down  and 
sleep,  signorino." 

Delarey  hesitated  for  a  moment.  He  thought  of  his 
companions.  If  they  should  wake  in  the  cave  and  miss 
him  what  would  they  think,  what  would  they  do  ?  Then 
he  looked  again  at  the  bed.  The  longing  to  lie  down  on 
it  was  irresistible.  He  pointed  to  the  open  door. 

"When  the  sun  comes  will  you  wake  me?"  he  said. 

He  took  hold  of  his  arm  with  one  hand,  and  made  the 
motion  of  shaking  himself. 

"5 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Sole,"  he  said.     "Quando  c'e  il  sole." 

The  girl  laughed  and  nodded. 

"Si,  signore — non  dubiti!" 

Delarey  climbed  up  on  to  the  mountainous  bed. 

"Buona  notte,  Maddalena!"  he  said,  smiling  at  her 
from  the  pillow  like  a  boy. 

"Buon  riposo,  signorino!" 

That  was  the  last  thing  he  heard.  The  last  thing  he 
saw  was  the  dark,  eager  face  of  the  girl  lit  up  by  the 
candle-flame  watching  him  from  the  farther  room.  Her 
slight  figure  was  framed  by  the  doorway,  through  which 
a  faint,  sad  light  was  stealing  with  the  soft  wind  from  the 
sea.  Her  lustrous  eyes  were  looking  towards  him  curi- 
ously, as  if  he  were  something  of  a  phenomenon,  as  if 
she  longed  to  understand  his  mystery. 

Soon,  very  soon,  he  saw  those  eyes  no  more.  He  was 
asleep  in  the  midst  of  the  Madonnas  and  the  saints,  with 
the  blessed  palm  branch  and  the  crucifix  and  Maria 
Addolorata  above  his  head. 

The  girl  sat  down  on  a  chair  just  outside  the  door,  and 
began  to  sing  to  herself  once  more  in  a  low  voice: 

"Divina  Pruvidenza,  pruvviditimi ; 
Divina  Pruvidenza,  consulatimi; 
Divina  Pruvidenza  e  granni  assai; 
Cu*  teni  fidi  a  Diu,  'un  pirisci  mail" 

Once,  in  his  sleep,  Delarey  must  surely  have  heard  her 
song,  for  he  began  to  dream  that  he  was  Ulysses  sailing 
across  the  purple  seas  along  the  shores  of  an  enchanted 
coast,  and  that  he  heard  far  off  the  sirens  singing,  and 
saw  their  shadowy  forms  sitting  among  the  rocks  and  re- 
clining upon  the  yellow  sands.  Then  he  bade  his  mari- 
ners steer  the  bark  towards  the  shore.  But  when  he 
drew  near  the  sirens  changed  into  devout  peasant  women, 
and  their  alluring  songs  into  prayers  uttered  to  the 
Bambino  and  the  Virgin.  But  one  watched  him  with 
eyes  that  gleamed  like  black  jewels,  and  her  lips  smiled 
126 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

while  they  uttered  prayers,  as  if  they  could  murmur  love 
words  and  kiss  the  lips  of  men. 

"Signorino!     Signorino!" 

Delarey  stirred  on  the  great,  white  bed.  A  hand 
grasped  him  firmly,  shook  him  ruthlessly. 

"Signorino!     C'e  il  sole!" 

He  opened  his  eyes  reluctantly.  Maddalena  was 
leaning  over  him.  He  saw  her  bright  face  and  curious 
young  eyes,  then  the  faces  of  the  saints  and  the  actresses 
upon  the  wall,  and  he  wondered  where  he  was  and 
where  Hermione  was. 

"Hermione!"  he  said. 

"Cosa?"  said  Maddalena. 

She  shook  him  again  gently.  He  stretched  himself, 
yawned,  and  began  to  smile.  She  smiled  back  at  him. 

"  C'e  il  sole!" 

Now  he  remembered,  lifted  himself  up,  and  looked 
towards  the  doorway.  The  first  rays  of  the  sun  were 
filtering  in  and  sparkling  in  the  distance  upon  the  sea. 
The  east  was  barred  with  red. 

He  slipped  down  from  the  bed. 

"The  frittura!"  he  said,  in  English.  "I  must  make 
haste!" 

Maddalena  laughed.  She  had  never  heard  English 
before. 

"Ditelo  ancora!"  she  cried,  eagerly. 

They  went  out  together  on  to  the  plateau  and  stood 
looking  seaward. 

"I — must — make — haste!"  he  said,  speaking  slowly 
and  dividing  the  words. 

"Hi — maust — maiki — 'ai — isti!"  she  repeated,  try- 
ing to  imitate  his  accent. 

He  burst  out  laughing.  She  pouted.  Then  she 
laughed,  too,  peal  upon  peal,  while  the  sunlight  grew 
stronger  about  them.  How  fresh  the  wind  was!  It 
played  with  her  hair,  from  which  she  had  now  removed 
the  handkerchief,  and  ruffled  the  little  feathers  of  gold 
127 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

upon  her  brow.  It  blew  about  her  smooth,  young  face 
as  if  it  loved  to  touch  the  soft  cheeks,  the  innocent  lips, 
the  candid,  unlined  brow.  The  leaves  of  the  olive- 
trees  rustled  and  the  brambles  and  the  grasses  swayed. 
Everything  was  in  movement,  stirring  gayly  into  life  to 
greet  the  coming  day.  Maurice  opened  his  mouth  and 
drew  in  the  air  to  his  lungs,  expanding  his  chest.  He 
felt  inclined  to  dance,  to  sing,  and  very  much  inclined 
to  eat. 

"Addio,  Maddalena!"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  added: 

"Addio,  Maddalena  mia!" 

She  smiled  and  looked  down,  then  up  at  him  again. 

"A  rivederci,  signorino!" 

She  took  his  hand  warmly  in  hers. 

"Yes,  that's  better.     A  rivederci!" 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  moment,  looking  into  her  long 
and  laughing  eyes,  and  thinking  how  like  a  young  ani- 
mal's they  were  in  their  unwinking  candor.  And  yet 
they  were  not  like  an  animal's.  For  now,  when  he 
gazed  into  them,  they  did  not  look  away  from  him,  but 
continued  to  regard  him,  and  always  with  an  eager 
shining  of  curiosity.  That  curiosity  stirred  his  man- 
hood, fired  him.  He  longed  to  reply  to  it,  to  give  a 
quick  answer  to  its  eager  question,  its  "what  are  you?" 
He  glanced  round,  saw  only  the  trees,  the  sea  all  alight 
with  sunrays,  the  red  east  now  changing  slowly  into 
gold.  Then  he  bent  down,  kissed  the  lips  of  Maddalena 
with  a  laugh,  turned  and  descended  through  the  trees 
by  the  way  he  had  come.  He  had  no  feeling  that  he 
had  done  any  wrong  to  Hermione,  any  wrong  to  Mad- 
dalena. His  spirits  were  high,  and  he  sang  as  he  leaped 
down,  agile  as  a  goat,  to  the  sea.  He  meant  to  return 
as  he  had  come,  and  at  the  water's  edge  he  stripped  off 
his  clothes  once  more,  tied  them  into  a  bundle,  plunged 
into  the  sea,  and  struck  out  for  the  beach  opposite.  As 
he  did  so,  as  the  cold,  bracing  water  seized  him,  he 
128 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

heard  far  above  him  the  musical  cry  of  the  siren  of  the 
night.  He  answered  it  with  a  loud,  exultant  call. 

That  was  her  farewell  and  his  —  this  rustic  Hero's 
good-bye  to  her  Leander. 

When  he  reached  the  Caffe  Berardi  its  door  stood  open, 
and  a  middle-aged  woman  was  looking  out  seaward. 
Beyond,  by  the  caves,  he  saw  figures  moving.  His  com- 
panions were  awake.  He  hastened  towards  them.  His 
morning  plunge  in  the  sea  had  given  him  a  wild  ap- 
petite. 

"Frittura!  Frittura!"  he  shouted,  taking  off  his  hat 
and  waving  it. 

Gaspare  came  running  towards  him. 

"Where  have  you  been,  signorino?" 

"For  a  walk  along  the  shore." 

He  still  kept  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Why,  your  face  is  all  wet,  and  so  is  your  hair." 

"I  washed  them  in  the  sea.  Mangiamo!  Man- 
giamo!" 

"You  did  not  sleep?" 

Gaspare  spoke  curiously,  regarded  him  with  inquisi- 
tive, searching  eyes. 

"I  couldn't.     I'll  sleep  up  there  when  we  get  home." 

He  pointed  to  the  mountain.  His  eyes  were  dan- 
cing with  gayety. 

"The  frittura,  Gasparino,  the  frittura!  And  then  the 
tarantella,  and  then  'O  sole  mio'!" 

He  looked  towards  the  rising  sun,  and  began  to  sing 
at  the  top  of  his  voice: 

"O  sole,  o  sole  mio, 
Sta  'n  fronte  a  te, 
Sta  'n  fronte  a  tel" 

Gaspare  joined  in  lustily,  and  Carmela  in  the  door- 
way of  the  Caff&  Berardi  waved  a  frying-pan  at  them 
in  time  to  the  music. 

"Per  Dio,  Gaspare!"  exclaimed  Maurice,  as  they  raced 
129 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

towards  the  house,  each  striving  to  be  first  there — "Per 
Dio,  I  never  knew  what  life  was  till  I  came  to  Sicily! 
I  never  knew  what  happiness  was  till  this  morning!" 

"The  frittura!  The  frittura  I"  shouted  Gaspare. 
"I'll  be  first!" 

Neck  and  neck  they  reached  the  caffe  as  Nito  poured 
the  shining  fish  into  Madre  Carmela's  frying-pan. 


VIII 

"THEY  are  coming,  signora,  they  are  coming!  Don't 
you  hear  them?" 

Lucrezia  was  by  the  terrace  wall  looking  over  into 
the  ravine.  She  could  not  see  any  moving  figures,  but 
she  heard  far  down  among  the  olives  and  the  fruit 
trees  Gaspare's  voice  singing  "O  sole  mio!"  and  while 
she  listened  another  voice  joined  in,  the  voice  of  the 
padrone : 

"Dio  mio,  but  they  are  merry!"  she  added,  as  the 
song  was  broken  by  a  distant  peal  of  laughter. 

Hermione  came  out  upon  the  steps.  She  had  been 
in  the  sitting-room  writing  a  letter  to  Miss  Townly,  who 
sent  her  long  and  tearful  effusions  from  London  almost 
every  day. 

"Have  you  got  the  frying-pan  ready,  Lucrezia?" 
she  asked. 

"The  frying-pan,  signora!" 

"Yes,  for  the  fish  they  are  bringing  us." 

Lucrezia  looked  knowing. 

"Oh,  signora,  they  will  bring  no  fish." 

"Why  not?  They  promised  last  night.  Didn't  you 
hear?" 

"They  promised,  yes,  but  they  won't  remember. 
Men  promise  at  night  and  forget  in  the  morning." 

Hermione  laughed.  She  had  been  feeling  a  little 
dull,  but  now  the  sound  of  the  lusty  voices  and  the 
laughter  from  the  ravine  filled  her  with  a  sudden  cheer- 
fulness, and  sent  a  glow  of  anticipation  into  her  heart. 

"Lucrezia,  you  are  a  cynic." 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"What  is  a  cinico,  signora?" 

"A  Lucrezia.  But  you  don't  know  your  padrone. 
He  won't  forget  us." 

Lucrezia  reddened.  She  feared  she  had  perhaps  said 
something  that  seemed  disrespectful. 

"  Oh,  signora,  there  is  not  another  like  the  padrone. 
Every  one  says  so.  Ask  Gaspare  and  Sebastiano.  I 
only  meant  that — " 

"  I  know.  Well,  to-day  you  will  understand  that 
all  men  are  not  forgetful,  when  you  eat  your  fish." 

Lucrezia  still  looked  very  doubtful,  but  she  said  noth- 
ing more. 

"There  they  are!"  exclaimed  Hermione. 

She  waved  her  hand  and  cried  out.  Life  suddenly 
seemed  quite  different  to  her.  These  moving  figures 
peopled  gloriously  the  desert  waste,  these  ringing  voices 
filled  with  music  the  brooding  silence  of  it.  She  mur- 
mured to  herself  a  verse  of  scripture,  "Sorrow  may  en- 
dure for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  with  the  morning," 
and  she  realized  for  the  first  time  how  absurdly  sad  and 
deserted  she  had  been  feeling,  how  unreasonably  for- 
lorn. By  her  present  joy  she  measured  her  past — not 
sorrow  exactly;  she  could  not  call  it  that — her  past 
dreariness,  and  she  said  to  herself  with  a  little  shock 
almost  of  fear,  "How  terribly  dependent  I  am!" 

"Mamma  mia!"  cried  Lucrezia,  as  another  shout  of 
laughter  came  up  from  the  ravine,  "how  merry  and 
mad  they  are!  They  have  had  a  good  night's  fishing." 

Hermione  heard  the  laughter,  but  now  it  sounded  a 
little  harsh  in  her  ears. 

"I  wonder,"  she  thought,  as  she  leaned  upon  the 
terrace  wall — "  I  wonder  if  he  has  missed  me  at  all  ?  I 
wonder  if  men  ever  miss  us  as  we  miss  them?" 

Her  call,  it  seemed,  had  not  been  heard,  nor  her  gest- 
ure of  welcome  seen,  but  now  Maurice  looked  up,  waved 
his  cap,  and  shouted.     Gaspare,  too,  took  off  his  linen 
hat  with  a  stentorian  cry  of  "Buon  giorno,  signora." 
132 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Signora!"  said  Lucrezia. 

"Yes?" 

"Look!  Was  not  I  right?  Are  they  carrying  any- 
thing?" 

Hermione  looked  eagerly,  almost  passionately,  at  the 
two  figures  now  drawing  near  to  the  last  ascent  up  the 
bare  mountain  flank.  Maurice  had  a  stick  in  one  hand, 
the  other  hung  empty  at  his  side.  Gaspare  still  waved 
his  hat  wildly,  holding  it  with  both  hands  as  a  sailor 
holds  the  signalling-flag. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said — "  perhaps  it  wasn't  a  good  night, 
and  they've  caught  nothing." 

"Oh,  signora,  the  sea  was  calm.  They  must  have 
taken — " 

"Perhaps  their  pockets  are  full  of  fish.  I  am  sure 
they  are." 

She  spoke  with  a  cheerful  assurance. 

"If  they  have  caught  any  fish,  I  know  your  frying- 
pan  will  be  wanted,"  she  said. 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  said  Lucrezia,  with  rather  perfunctory 
politeness. 

Secretly  she  thought  that  the  padrona  had  only  one 
fault.  She  was  a  little  obstinate  sometimes,  and  dis- 
inclined to  be  told  the  truth.  And  certainly  she  did  not 
know  very  much  about  men,  although  she  had  a  hus- 
band. 

Through  the  old  Norman  arch  came  Delarey  and  Gas- 
pare, with  hot  faces  and  gay,  shining  eyes,  splendidly 
tired  with  their  exertions  and  happy  in  the  thought  of 
rest.  Delarey  took  Hermione's  hand  in  his.  He  would 
have  kissed  her  before  Lucrezia  and  Gaspare,  quite 
naturally,  but  he  felt  that  her  hand  stiffened  slightly  in 
his  as  he  leaned  forward,  and  he  forbore.  She  longed 
for  his  kiss,  but  to  receive  it  there  would  have  spoiled  a 
joy.  And  kind  and  familiar  though  she  was  with  those 
beneath  her,  she  could  not  bear  to  show  the  deeps  of 
her  heart  before  them.  To  her  his  kiss  after  her  lonely 
133 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

night  would  be  an  event.  Did  he  know  that?  She 
wondered. 

He  still  kept  her  hand  in  his  as  he  began  to  tell  her 
about  their  expedition. 

"Did  you  enjoy  it?"  she  asked,  thinking  what  a  boy 
he  looked  in  his  eager,  physical  happiness. 

"Ask  Gaspare!" 

"I  don't  think  I  need.     Your  eyes  tell  me." 

"I  never  enjoyed  any  night  so  much  before,  out  there 
under  the  moon.  Why  don't  we  always  sleep  out-of- 
doors?" 

"Shall  we  try  some  night  on  the  terrace?" 

"By  Jove,  we  will!     What  a  lark!" 

"Did  you  go  into  the  sea?" 

"I  should  think  so!  Ask  Gaspare  if  I  didn't  beat 
them  all.  I  had  to  swim,  too." 

"And  the  fish?"  she  said,  trying  to  speak,  carelessly. 

"They  were  stunning.  We  caught  an  awful  lot,  and 
Mother  Carmela  cooked  them  to  a  T.  I  had  an  ap- 
petite, I  can  tell  you,  Hermione,  after  being  in  the 
sea." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Her  hand  had  dropped 
out  of  his.  When  she  spoke  again,  she  said: 

"And  you  slept  in  the  caves?" 

"The  others  did." 

"And  you?" 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  so  I  went  out  on  to  the  beach.  But 
I'll  tell  you  all  that  presently.  You  won't  be  shocked, 
Hermione,  if  I  take  a  siesta  now?  I'm  pretty  well  done 
— grandly  tired,  don't  you  know.  I  think  I  could  get 
a  lovely  nap  before  collazione." 

"  Come  in,  my  dearest,"  she  said.  "  Collazione  a  little 
late,  Lucrezia,  not  till  half-past  one." 

"And  the  fish,  signora?"  asked  Lucrezia. 

"We've  got  quite  enough  without  fish,"  said  Hermi- 
one, turning  away. 

"Oh,  by  Jove!"  Delarey  said,  as  they  went  into  the 
134 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

cottage,  putting  his  hand  into  his  jacket-pocket,  "I've 
got  something  for  you,  Hermione." 

"Fish!"  she  cried,  eagerly,  her  whole  face  brightening. 
"Lucre — " 

"Fish  in  my  coat!"  he  interrupted,  still  not  remember- 
ing. "  No,  a  letter.  They  gave  it  me  from  the  village  as 
we  came  up.  Here  it  is." 

He  drew  out  a  letter,  gave  it  to  her,  and  went  into  the 
bedroom,  while  Hermione  stood  in  the  sitting-room  by 
the  dining-table  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

It  was  from  Artois,  with  the  Kairouan  postmark. 

"  It's  from  Emile,"  she  said. 

Maurice  was  closing  the  shutters,  to  make  the  bedroom 
dark. 

"  Is  he  still  in  Africa  ?"  he  asked,  letting  down  the  bar 
with  a  clatter. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  opening  the  envelope.  "Go  to  bed 
like  a  good  boy  while  I  read  it." 

She  wanted  his  kiss  so  much  that  she  did  not  go  near 
to  him,  and  spoke  with  a  lightness  that  was  almost  like 
a  feigned  indifference.  He  thrust  his  gay  face  through 
the  doorway  into  the  sunshine,  and  she  saw  the  beads 
of  perspiration  on  his  smooth  brow  above  his  laughing, 
yet  half-sleepy  eyes. 

"Come  and  tuck  me  up  afterwards!"  he  said,  and 
vanished. 

Hermione  made  a  little  movement  as  if  to  follow  him, 
but  checked  it  and  unfolded  the  letter. 

"4,  RUE  D' ABDUL  KADER,  KAIROUAN. 

"Mv  DEAR  FRIEND, — This  will  be  one  of  my  dreary  notes,  but 
you  must  forgive  me.  Do  you  ever  feel  a  heavy  cloud  of  appre- 
hension lowering  over  you,  a  sensation  of  approaching  calamity, 
as  if  you  heard  the  footsteps  of  a  deadly  enemy  stealthily  ap- 
proaching you?  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  lose  courage,  to 
fear  yourself,  life,  the  future,  to  long  to  hear  a  word  of  sym- 
pathy from  a  friendly  voice,  to  long  to  lay  hold  of  a  friendly 
hand  ?  Are  you  ever  like  a  child  in  the  dark,  your  intellect  no 

135 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

weapon  against  the  dread  of  formless  things  ?  The  African  sun 
is  shining  here  as  I  sit  under  a  palm-tree  writing,  with  my  ser- 
vant, Zerzour,  squatting  beside  me.  It  is  so  clear  that  I  can 
almost  count  the  veins  in  the  leaves  of  the  palms,  so  warm  that 
Zerzour  has  thrown  off  his  burnous  and  kept,  on  only  his  linen 
shirt.  And  yet  I  am  cold  and  seem  to  be  in  blackness.  I  write 
to  you  to  gain  some  courage  if  I  can.  But  I  have  gained  none 
yet.  I  believe  there  must  be  a  physical  cause  for  my  malaise, 
and  that  I  am  going  to  have  some  dreadful  illness,  and  perhaps 
lay  my  bones  here  in  the  shadow  of  the  mosques  among  the 
sons  of  Islam.  Write  to  me.  Is  the  garden  of  paradise  bloom- 
ing with  flowers  ?  Is  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  weighed 
down  with  fruit,  and  do  you  pluck  the  fruit  boldly  and  eat  it 
every  day  ?  You  told  me  in  London  to  come  over  and  see  you. 
I  am  not  coming.  Do  not  fear.  But  how  I  wish  that  I  could 
now,  at  this  instant,  see  your  strong  face,  touch  your  coura- 
geous hand!  There  is  a  sensation  of  doom  upon  me.  Laugh 
at  me  as  much  as  you  like,  but  write  to  me.  I  feel  cold — cold 
in  the  sun.  EMILE." 


When  she  had  finished  reading  this  letter,  Hermione 
stood  quite  still  with  it  in  her  hand,  gazing  at  the  white 
paper  on  which  this  cry  from  Africa  was  traced.  It 
seemed  to  her  that — a  cry  from  across  the  sea  for  help 
against  some  impending  fate.  She  had  often  had 
melancholy  letters  from  Artois  in  the  past,  expressing 
pessimistic  views  about  life  and  literature,  anxiety  about 
some  book  which  he  was  writing  and  which  he  thought 
was  going  to  be  a  failure,  anger  against  the  follies  of  men, 
the  turn  of  French  politics,  or  the  degeneration  of  the 
arts  in  modern  times.  Diatribes  she  was  accustomed  to, 
and  a  definite  melancholy  from  one  who  had  not  a  gay 
temperament.  But  this  letter  was  different  from  all 
the  others.  She  sat  down  and  read  it  again.  For  the 
moment  she  had  forgotten  Maurice,  and  did  not  hear  his 
movements  in  the  adjoining  room.  She  was  in  Africa 
under  a  palm-tree,  looking  into  the  face  of  a  friend  with 
keen  anxiety,  trying  to  read  the  immediate  future  for 
him  there. 

"Mauricel"  she  called,  presently,  without  getting  up 
136 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

from  her  seat,  "Fve  had  such  a  strange  letter  from 
Emile.  I'm  afraid  —  I  feel  as  if  he  were  going  to  be 
dreadfully  ill  or  have  an  accident." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Maurice!"  she  called  again. 

Then  she  got  up  and  looked  into  the  bedroom.  It 
was  nearly  dark,  but  she  could  see  her  husband's  black 
head  on  the  pillow  and  hear  a  sound  of  regular  breath- 
ing. He  was  asleep  already;  she  had  not  received  his 
kiss  or  tucked  him  up.  She  felt  absurdly  unhappy, 
as  if  she  had  missed  a  pleasure  that  could  never  come  to 
her  again.  That,  she  thought,  is  one  of  the  penalties  of 
a  great  love,  the  passionate  regret  it  spends  on  the  tiny 
things  it  has  failed  of.  At  this  moment  she  fancied — no, 
she  felt  sure — that  there  would  always  be  a  shadow  in 
her  life.  She  had  lost  Maurice's  kiss  after  his  return  from 
his  first  absence  since  their  marriage.  And  a  kiss  from 
his  lips  still  seemed  to  her  a  wonderful,  almost  a  sacred 
thing,  not  only  a  physical  act,  but  an  emblem  of  that 
which  was  mysterious  and  lay  behind  the  physical. 
Why  had  she  not  let  him  kiss  her  on  the  terrace  ?  Her 
sensitive  reserve  had  made  her  loss.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  she  wished  she  had  the  careless  mind  of  a 
peasant.  Lucrezia  loved  Sebastiano  with  passion,  but 
she  would  have  let  him  kiss  her  in  public  and  been  proud 
of  it.  What  was  the  use  of  delicacy,  of  sensitiveness,  in 
the  great,  coarse  thing  called  life  ?  Even  Maurice  had  not 
shared  her  feeling.  He  was  open  as  a  boy,  almost  as  a 
peasant  boy. 

She  began  to  wonder  about  him.  She  often  wondered 
about  him  now  in  Sicily.  In  England  she  never  had. 
She  had  thought  there  that  she  knew  him  as  he,  perhaps, 
could  never  know  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
been  almost  arrogant,  filled  with  a  pride  of  intellect.  She 
was  beginning  to  be  humbler  here,  face  to  face  with  Etna. 

Let  him  sleep,  mystery  wrapped  in  the  mystery  of 
slumber  1 

137 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  sat  down  in  the  twilight,  waiting  till  he  should 
wake,  watching  the  darkness  of  his  hair  upon  the  pillow. 

Some  time  passed,  and  presently  she  heard  a  noise 
upon  the  terrace.  She  got  up  softly,  went  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  looked  out.  Lucrezia  was  laying  the 
table  for  collazione. 

"Is  it  half-past  one  already?"  she  asked. 

"Si,  signora." 

"But  the  padrone  is  still  asleep!" 

"So  is  Gaspare  in  the  hay.     Come  and  see,  signora.*' 

Lucrezia  took  Hermione  by  the  hand  and  led  her 
round  the  angle  of  the  cottage.  There,  under  the  low 
roof  of  the  out-house,  dressed  only  in  his  shirt  and  trousers 
with  his  brown  arms  bare  and  his  hair  tumbled  over  his 
damp  forehead,  lay  Gaspare  on  a  heap  of  hay  close  to 
Tito,  the  donkey.  Some  hens  were  tripping  and  pecking 
by  his  legs,  and  a  black  cat  was  curled  up  in  the  hollow 
of  his  left  armpit.  He  looked  infinitely  young,  healthy, 
and  comfortable,  like  an  embodied  carelessness  that  had 
flung  itself  down  to  its  need. 

"I  wish  I  could  sleep  like  that,"  said  Hermione. 

"Signora!"  said  Lucrezia,  shocked.  "You  in  the 
stable  with  that  white  dress!  Mamma  mia!  And  the 
hens!" 

"Hens,  donkey,  cat,  hay,  and  all — I  should  love  it. 
But  I'm  too  old  ever  to  sleep  like  that.  Don't  wake 
him!" 

Lucrezia  was  stepping  over  to  Gaspare. 

"And  I  won't  wake  the  padrone.  Let  them  both 
sleep.  They've  been  up  all  night.  I'll  eat  alone.  When 
they  wake  we'll  manage  something  for  them.  Perhaps 
they'll  sleep  till  evening,  till  dinner-time." 

"  Gaspare  will,  signora.  He  can  sleep  the  clock  round 
when  he's  tired." 

"And  the  padrone  too,  I  dare  say.     All  the  better." 

She  spoke  cheerfully,  then  went  to  sit  down  to  her 
solitary  meal. 

138 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

The  letter  of  Artois  was  her  only  company.  She  read 
it  again  as  she  ate,  and  again  felt  as  if  it  had  been  written 
by  a  man  over  whom  some  real  misfortune  was  impend- 
ing. The  thought  of  his  isolation  in  that  remote  African 
city  pained  her  warm  heart.  She  compared  it  with  her 
own  momentary  solitude,  and  chided  herself  for  minding 
— and  she  did  mind — the  lonely  meal.  How  much  she 
had — everything  almost!  And  Artois,  with  his  genius, 
his  fame,  his  liberty — how  little  he  had!  An  Arab  ser- 
vant for  his  companion,  while  she  for  hers  had  Maurice! 
Her  heart  glowed  with  thankfulness,  and,  feeling  how 
rich  she  was,  she  felt  a  longing  to  give  to  others — a  long- 
ing to  make  every  one  happy,  a  longing  specially  to  make 
Emile  happy.  His  letter  was  horribly  sad.  Each  time 
she  looked  at  it  she  was  made  sad  by  it,  even  apprehen- 
sive. She  remembered  their  long  and  close  friendship, 
how  she  had  sympathized  with  all  his  struggles,  how  she 
had  been  proud  of  possessing  his  confidence  and  of  being 
asked  to  advise  him  on  points  connected  with  his  work. 
The  past  returned  to  her,  kindling  fires  in  her  heart,  till 
she  longed  to  be  near  him  and  to  shed  their  warmth  on 
him.  The  African  sun  shone  upon  him  and  left  him  cold, 
numb.  How  wonderful  it  was,  she  thought,  that  the 
touch  of  a  true  friend's  hand,  the  smile  of  the  eyes  of  a 
friend,  could  succeed  where  the  sun  failed.  Sometimes 
she  thought  of  herself,  of  all  human  beings,  as  pygmies. 
Now  she  felt  that  she  came  of  a  race  of  giants,  whose 
powers  were  illimitable.  If  only  she  could  be  under  that 
palm-tree  for  a  moment  beside  Emile,  she  would  be  able 
to  test  the  power  she  knew  was  within  her,  the  glorious 
power  that  the  sun  lacked,  to  shed  light  and  heat  through 
a  human  soul.  With  an  instinctive  gesture  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  as  if  to  give  Artois  the  touch  he  longed  for. 
It  encountered  only  the  air  and  dropped  to  her  side. 
She  got  up  with  a  sigh. 

"Poor  old  Emile!"  she  said  to   herself.     "If   only  I 
could  do  something  for  him!" 
139 


THE   CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

The  thought  of  Maurice  sleeping  calmly  close  to  her 
made  her  long  to  say  "Thank  you"  for  her  great  happi- 
ness by  performing  some  action  of  usefulness,  some  ac- 
tion that  would  help  another — Emile  for  choice — to  hap- 
piness, or,  at  least,  to  calm. 

This  longing  was  for  a  moment  so  keen  in  her  that  it 
was  almost  like  an  unconscious  petition,  like  an  unuttered 
prayer  in  the  heart,  "Give  me  an  opportunity  to  show 
my  gratitude." 

She  stood  by  the  wall  for  a  moment,  looking  over  into 
the  ravine  and  at  the  mountain  flank  opposite.  Etna 
was  startlingly  clear  to-day.  She  fancied  that  if  a  fly 
were  to  settle  upon  the  snow  on  its  summit  she  would  be 
able  to  see  it.  The  sea  was  like  a  mirror  in  which  lay 
the  reflection  of  the  unclouded  sky.  It  was  not  far  to 
Africa.  She  watched  a  bird  pass  towards  the  sea. 
Perhaps  it  was  flying  to  Kairouan,  and  would  settle  at 
last  on  one  of  the  white  cupolas  of  the  great  mosque 
there,  the  Mosque  of  Djama  Kebir. 

What  could  she  do  for  Emile?  She  could  at  least 
write  to  him.  She  could  renew  her  invitation  to  him  to 
come  to  Sicily. 

"Lucrezia!"  she  called,  softly,  lest  she  might  waken 
Maurice. 

"Signora?"  said  Lucrezia,  appearing  round  the  corner 
of  the  cottage. 

"  Please  bring  me  out  a  pen  and  ink  and  writing-paper, 
will  you  ?" 

"Si,  signora." 

Lucrezia  was  standing  beside  Hermione.  Now  she 
turned  to  go  into  the  house.  As  she  did  so  she  said: 

"Ecco,  Antonino  from  the  post-office!" 

"Where?"  asked  Hermione. 

Lucrezia  pointed  to  a  little  figure  that  was  moving 
quickly  along  the  mountain-path  towards  the  cottage. 

"There,  signora.     But  why  should  he  come?     It  is 
not  the  hour  for  the  post  yet." 
140 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"No.  Perhaps  it  is  a  telegram.  Yes,  it  must  be  a 
telegram." 

She  glanced  at  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  It's  a  telegram  from  Africa,"  she  said,  as  if  she  knew. 

And  at  that  moment  she  felt  that  she  did  know. 

Lucrezia  regarded  her  with  round-eyed  amazement. 

"But,  signora,  how  can  you — " 

"There,  Antonino  has  disappeared  under  the  trees! 
We  shall  see  him  in  a  minute  among  the  rocks.  I'll  go  to 
meet  him." 

And  she  went  quickly  to  the  archway,  and  looked 
down  the  path  where  the  lizards  were  darting  to  and  fro 
in  the  sunshine.  Almost  directly  Antonino  reappeared, 
a  small  boy  climbing  steadily  up  the  steep  pathway,  with 
a  leather  bag  slung  over  his  shoulder. 

"Antonino!"  she  called  to  him.     "Is  it  a  telegram?" 

"Si,  signora!"  he  cried  out. 

He  came  up  to  her,  panting,  opened  the  bag,  and  gave 
her  the  folded  paper. 

"Go  and  get  something  to  drink,"  she  said.  "To  eat, 
too,  if  you're  hungry." 

Antonino  ran  off  eagerly,  while  Hermione  tore  open 
the  paper  and  read  these  words  in  French : 

"Monsieur  Artois  dangerously  ill;  fear  may  not  recover;  he 
wished  you  to  know. 

"  MAX  BERTON,  Docteur  M£decin,  Kairouan." 

Hermione  dropped  the  telegram.  She  did  not  feel  at 
all  surprised.  Indeed,  she  felt  that  she  had  been  ex- 
pecting almost  these  very  words,  telling  her  of  a  tragedy 
at  which  the  letter  she  still  held  in  her  hand  had  hinted. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  there  without  being  conscious  of 
any  special  sensation.  Then  she  stooped,  picked  up  the 
telegram,  and  read  it  again.  This  time  it  seemed  like  an 
answer  to  that  unuttered  prayer  in  her  heart:  "Give  me 
an  opportunity  to  show  my  gratitude."  She  did  not 
141 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

hesitate  for  a  moment  as  to  what  she  would  do.  She 
would  go  to  Kairouan,  to  close  the  eyes  of  her  friend  if 
he  must  die,  if  not  to  nurse  him  back  to  life. 

Antonino  was  munching  some  bread  and  cheese  and 
had  one  hand  round  a  glass  full  of  red  wine. 

"I'm  going  to  write  an  answer,"  she  said  to  him,  "and 
you  must  run  with  it." 

"Si,  signora." 

"Was  it  from  Africa,  signora?"  asked  Lucrezia. 

"Yes." 

Lucrezia's  jaw  fell,  and  she  stared  in  superstitious 
amazement. 

"I  wonder,"  Hermione  thought,  "if  Maurice — " 

She  went  gently  to  the  bedroom.  He  was  still  sleep- 
ing calmly.  His  attitude  of  luxurious  repose,  the  sound 
of  his  quiet  breathing,  seemed  strange  to  her  eyes  and 
ears  at  this  moment,  strange  and  almost  horrible.  For 
an  instant  she  thought  of  waking  him  in  order  to  tell 
him  her  news  and  consult  with  him  about  the  journey. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  to  ask  him  whether  there 
should  be  a  journey.  But  something  held  her  back,  as 
one  is  held  back  from  disturbing  the  slumber  of  a  tired 
child,  and  she  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  wrote  out 
the  following  telegram: 

"  Shall  start  for  Kairouan  at  once;  wire  me  Tunisia  Palace 
Hotel,  Tunis,  MADAME  DELAREY," 

and  sent  Antonino  with  it  flying  down  the  hill.  Then 
she  got  time-tables  and  a  guide-book  of  Tunisia,  and  sat 
down  at  her  writing-table  to  make  out  the  journey ;  while 
Lucrezia,  conscious  that  something  unusual  was  afoot, 
watched  her  with  solemn  eyes. 

Hermione   found    that   she   would   gain   nothing   by 
starting  that  night.     By  leaving  early  the  next  morn- 
ing she  would  arrive  at  Trapani  in  time  to  catch  a 
steamer  which   left   at   midnight   for   Tunis,   reaching 
142 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Africa  at  nine  on  the  following  morning.  From  Tunis 
a  day's  journey  by  train  would  bring  her  to  Kairouan. 
If  the  steamer  were  punctual  she  might  be  able  to  catch 
a  train  immediately  on  her  arrival  at  Tunis.  If  not, 
she  would  have  to  spend  one  day  there. 

Already  she  felt  as  if  she  were  travelling.  All  sense 
of  peace  had  left  her.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  shriek 
of  engines,  the  roar  of  trains  in  tunnels  and  under 
bridges,  to  shake  with  the  oscillation  of  the  carriage, 
to  sway  with  the  dip  and  rise  of  the  action  of  the 
steamer. 

Swiftly,  as  one  in  haste,  she  wrote  down  times  of 
departure  and  arrival:  Cattaro  to  Messina,  Messina  to 
Palermo,  Palermo  to  Trapani,  Trapani  to  Tunis,  Tunis 
to  Kairouan,  with  the  price  of  the  ticket  —  a  return 
ticket.  When  that  was  done  and  she  had  laid  down 
her  pen,  she  began  for  the  first  time  to  realize  the 
change  a  morsel  of  paper  had  made  in  her  life,  to  realize 
the  fact  of  the  closeness  of  her  new  knowledge  of  what 
was  and  what  was  coming  to  Maurice's  ignorance.  The 
travelling  sensation  within  her,  an  intense  interior  rest- 
lessness, made  her  long  for  action,  for  some  ardent 
occupation  in  which  the  body  could  take  part.  She 
would  have  liked  to  begin  at  once  to  pack,  but  all  her 
things  were  in  the  bedroom  where  Maurice  was  sleeping. 
Would  he  sleep  forever?  She  longed  for  him  to  wake, 
but  she  would  not  wake  him.  Everything  could  be 
packed  in  an  hour.  There  was  no  reason  to  begin  now. 
But  how  could  she  remain  just  sitting  there  in  the 
great  tranquillity  of  this  afternoon  of  spring,  looking  at 
the  long,  calm  line  of  Etna  rising  from  the  sea,  while 
Emile,  perhaps,  lay  dying? 

She  got  up,  went  once  more  to  the  terrace,  and  began 
to  pace  up  and  down  under  the  awning.  She  had  not 
told  Lucrezia  that  she  was  going  on  the  morrow.  Mau- 
rice must  know  first.  What  would  he  say  ?  How  would 
he  take  it?  And  what  would  he  do?  Even  in  the 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

midst  of  her  now  growing  sorrow — for  at  first  she  had 
hardly  felt  sorry,  had  hardly  felt  anything  but  that 
intense  restlessness  which  still  possessed  her — she  was 
preoccupied  with  that.  She  meant,  when  he  woke,  to 
give  him  the  telegram,  and  say  simply  that  she  must 
go  at  once  to  Artois.  That  was  all.  She  would  not 
ask,  hint  at  anything  else.  She  would  just  tell  Maurice 
that  she  could  not  leave  her  dearest  friend  to  die  alone 
in  an  African  city,  tended  only  by  an  Arab,  and  a  doctor 
who  came  to  earn  his  fee. 

And  Maurice — what  would  he  say  ?  What  would  he — 
do? 

If  only  he  would  wake!  There  was  something  ter- 
rible to  her  in  the  contrast  between  his  condition  and 
hers  at  this  moment. 

And  what  ought  she  to  do  if  Maurice — ? 

She  broke  off  short  in  her  mental  arrangement  of 
possible  happenings  when  Maurice  should  wake. 

The  afternoon  waned  and  still  he  slept.  As  she 
watched  the  light  changing  on  the  sea,  growing  softer, 
more  wistful,  and  the  long  outline  of  Etna  becoming 
darker  against  the  sky,  Hermione  felt  a  sort  of  unreason- 
able despair  taking  possession  of  her.  So  few  hours  of 
the  day  were  left  now,  and  on  the  morrow  this  Sicilian 
life — a  life  that  had  been  ideal — must  come  to  an  end  for 
a  time,  and  perhaps  forever.  The  abruptness  of  the 
blow  which  had  fallen  had  wakened  in  her  sensitive 
heart  a  painful,  almost  an  exaggerated  sense  of  the 
uncertainty  of  the  human  fate.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
the  joy  which  had  been  hers  in  these  tranquil  Sicilian 
days,  a  joy  more  perfect  than  any  she  had  conceived  of, 
was  being  broken  off  short,  as  if  it  could  never  be  re- 
newed. With  her  anxiety  for  her  friend  mingled  an- 
other anxiety,  more  formless,  but  black  and  horrible  in 
its  vagueness. 

"If  this  should  be  our  last  day  together  in  Sicily!" 
she  thought,  as  she  watched  the  light  softening  among 
144 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

the  hills  and  the  shadows  of  the  olive -trees  lengthening 
upon  the  ground. 

"If  this  should  be  our  last  night  together  in  the  house 
of  the  priest  I" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  even  with  Maurice  in  another 
place  she  could  never  know  again  such  perfect  peace  and 
joy,  and  her  heart  ached  at  the  thought  of  leaving  it. 

"To-morrow!"  she  thought.  "Only  a  few  hours  and 
this  will  all  be  over!" 

It  seemed  almost  incredible.  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  realize  it  thoroughly  and  yet  that  she  realized  it  too 
much,  as  in  a  nightmare  one  seems  to  feel  both  less  and 
more  than  in  any  tragedy  of  a  wakeful  hour. 

A  few  hours  and  it  would  all  be  over — and  through 
those  hours  Maurice  slept. 

The  twilight  was  falling  when  he  stirred,  muttered 
some  broken  words,  and  opened  his  eyes.  He  heard  no 
sound,  and  thought  it  was  early  morning. 

"Hermione!"  he  said,  softly. 

Then  he  lay  still  for  a  moment  and  remembered. 

"By  Jove!  it  must  be  long  past  time  for  dejeuner!" 
he  thought. 

He  sprang  up  and  put  his  head  into  the  sitting-roora. 

"Hermione!"  he  called. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  from  the  terrace. 

"What's  the  time?" 

"  Nearly  dinner-time." 

He  burst  out  laughing. 

"Didn't  you  think  I  was  going  to  sleep  forever?"  he 
said. 

"Almost,"  her  voice  said. 

He  wondered  a  little  why  she  did  not  come  to  him, 
but  only  answered  him  from  a  distance. 

"I'll  dress  and  be  out  in  a  moment,"  he  called. 

"All  right!" 

Now  that  Maurice  was  awake  at  last,  Hermione's  grief 
at  the  lost  afternoon  became  much  more  acute,  but  she 
MS 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  determined  to  conceal  it.  She  remained  where  she 
was  just  then  because  she  had  been  startled  by  the  sound 
of  her  husband's  voice,  and  was  not  sure  of  her  power 
of  self-control.  When,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  came  out 
upon  the  terrace  with  a  half -amused,  half -apologetic 
look  on  his  face,  she  felt  safer.  She  resolved  to  waste 
no  time,  but  to  tell  him  at  once. 

"Maurice,"  she  said,  "while  you've  been  sleeping  I've 
been  living  very  fast  and  travelling  very  far." 

"How,  Hermione?  What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked, 
sitting  down  by  the  wall  and  looking  at  her  with  eyes 
that  still  held  shadows  of  sleep. 

"Something's  happened  to-day  that's — that's  going 
to  alter  everything." 

He  looked  astonished. 

"  Why,  how  grave  you  arel  But  what  ?  What  could 
happen  here?" 

"This  came." 

She  gave  him  the  doctor's  telegram.  He  read  it 
slowly  aloud. 

"Artois!"  he  said.  "Poor  fellow  1  And  out  there  in 
Africa  all  alone!" 

He  stopped  speaking,  looked  at  her,  then  leaned  for- 
ward, put  his  arm  round  her  shoulder,  and  kissed  her 
gently. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you,  Hermione,"  he  said. 
"Awfully  sorry.  I  know  how  you  must  be  feeling. 
When  did  it  come?" 

"Some  hours  ago." 

"And  I've  been  sleeping!     I  feel  a  brute." 

He  kissed  her  again. 

"Why  didn't  you  wake  me?" 

"  Just  to  share  a  grief  ?  That  would  have  been  horrid 
of  me,  Maurice!" 

He  looked  again  at  the  telegram. 

"Did  you  wire?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

146 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Of  course.  Perhaps  to-morrow,  or  in  a  day  or  two, 
we  shall  have  better  news,  that  he's  turned  the  corner. 
He's  a  strong  man,  Hermione;  he  ought  to  recover.  I 
believe  he'll  recover." 

"  Maurice,"  she  said.     "  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"What,  dear?" 

"I  feel  I  must — I  can't  wait  here  for  news." 

"But  then — what  will  you  do?" 

"While  you've  been  sleeping  I've  been  looking  out 
trains." 

"Trains!     You  don't  mean — " 

"I  must  start  for  Kairouan  to-morrow  morning. 
Read  this,  too." 

And  she  gave  him  Emile's  letter. 

"Doesn't  that  make  you  feel  his  loneliness?"  she 
said,  when  he  had  finished  it.  "And  think  of  it  now — 
now  when  perhaps  he  knows  that  he  is  dying." 

"You  are  going  away,"  he  said — "going  away  from 
here!" 

His  voice  sounded  as  if  he  could  not  believe  it. 

"To-morrow  morning!"  he  added,  more  incredu- 
lously. 

"If  I  waited  I  might  be  too  late." 

She  was  watching  him  with  intent  eyes,  in  which 
there  seemed  to  flame  a  great  anxiety. 

"You  know  what  friends  we've  been,"  she  continued. 
"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  go?" 

"I — perhaps — yes,  I  see  how  you  feel.  Yes,  I  see. 
But" — he  got  up — "to  leave  here  to-morrow!  I  felt 
as  if — almost  as  if  we'd  been  here  always  and  should 
live  here  for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  we  could!"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice 
changing.  "Oh, Maurice,  if  you  knew  how  dreadful  it  is 
to  me  to  go!" 

"How  far  is  Kairouan?" 

"If  I  catch  the  train  at  Tunis  I  can  be  there  the  day 
after  to-morrow." 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"And  you  are  going  to  nurse  him,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  if — if  I'm  in  time.  Now  I  ought  to  pack  be- 
fore dinner." 

"How  beastly!"  he  said,  just  like  a  boy.  "How  ut- 
terly beastly!  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  believe  it  all. 
But  you — what  a  trump  you  are,  Hermione!  To  leave 
this  and  travel  all  that  way— not  one  woman  in  a  hun- 
dred would  do  it." 

"Wouldn't  you  for  a  friend?" 

"I!"  he  said,  simply.  "I  don't  know  whether  I 
understand  friendship  as  you  do.  I've  had  lots  of 
friends,  of  course,  but  one  seemed  to  me  very  like  an- 
other, as  long  as  they  were  jolly." 

"How  Sicilian!"  she  thought. 

She  had  heard  Gaspare  speak  of  his  boy  friends  in 
much  the  same  way. 

"  Emile  is  more  to  me  than  any  one  in  the  world  but 
you,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  changed,  faltered  on  the  last  word,  and  she 
walked  along  the  terrace  to  the  sitting-room  window. 

"I  must  pack  now,"  she  said.  "Then  we  can  have 
one  more  quiet  time  together  after  dinner." 

Her  last  words  seemed  to  strike  him,  for  he  followed 
her,  and  as  she  was  going  into  the  bedroom,  he  said: 

"Perhaps — why  shouldn't  I — " 

But  then  he  stopped. 

"Yes,  Maurice!"  she  said,  quickly. 

"Where's  Gaspare?"  he  asked.  "We'll  make  him 
help  with  the  packing.  But  you  won't  take  much,  will 
you?  It  '11  only  be  for  a  few  days,  I  suppose." 

"Who  knows?" 

"Gaspare!     Gaspare!"  he  called. 

"Che  vuole?"  answered  a  sleepy  voice. 

"Come  here." 

In  a  moment  a  languid  figure  appeared  round  the 
corner.  Maurice  explained  matters.  Instantly  Gaspare 
became  a  thing  of  quicksilver.  He  darted  to  help 
148 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Hermione.     Every  nerve  seemed  quivering  to  be  use- 
ful. 

"And  the  signore?"  he  said,  presently,  as  he  carried  a 
trunk  into  the  room. 

"The  signore!"  said  Hermione. 

"Is  he  going,  too?" 

"No,  no!"  said  Hermione,  swiftly. 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips.  Delarey  was  just  com- 
ing into  the  room. 

Gaspare  said  no  more,  but  he  shot  a  curious  glance 
from  padrona  to  padrone  as  he  knelt  down  to  lay  some 
things  in  the  trunk. 

By  dinner-time  Hermione's  preparations  were  com- 
pleted. The  one  trunk  she  meant  to  take  was  packed. 
How  hateful  it  looked  standing  there  in  the  white  room 
with  the  label  hanging  from  the  handle!  She  washed 
her  face  and  hands  in  cold  water,  and  came  out  onto 
the  terrace  where  the  dinner-table  was  laid.  It  was  a 
warm,  still  night,  like  the  night  of  the  fishing,  and  the 
moon  hung  low  in  a  clear  sky. 

"  How  exquisite  it  is  here!"  she  said  to  Maurice,  as  they 
sat  down.  "  We  are  in  the  very  heart  of  calm,  majestic 
calm.  Look  at  that  one  star  over  Etna,  and  the  out- 
lines of  the  hills  and  of  that  old  castle — " 

She  stopped. 

"It  brings  a  lump  into  my  throat,"  she  said,  after  a 
little  pause.  "It's  too  beautiful  and  too  still  to-night." 

"I  love  being  here,"  he  said. 

They  ate  their  dinner  in  silence  for  some  time.  Pres- 
ently Maurice  began  to  crumble  his  bread. 

"Hermione,"  he  said.     "Look  here — " 

"Yes,  Maurice." 

"  I've  been  thinking — of  course  I  scarcely  know  Artois, 
and  I  could  be  of  no  earthly  use,  but  I've  been  thinking 
whether  it  would  not  be  better  for  me  to  come  to 
Kairouan  with  you." 

For  a  moment  Hermione's  rugged  face  was  lit  up  by  a 
149 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

fire  of  joy  that  made  her  look  beautiful.  Maurice  went 
on  crumbling  his  bread. 

"I  didn't  say  anything  at  first,"  he  continued,  "be- 
cause I — well,  somehow  I  felt  so  fixed  here,  almost  part 
of  the  place,  and  I  had  never  thought  of  going  till  it  got 
too  hot,  and  especially  not  now,  when  the  best  time  is 
only  just  beginning.  And  then  it  all  came  so  suddenly. 
I  was  still  more  than  half  asleep,  too,  I  believe,"  he 
added,  with  a  little  laugh,  "when  you  told  me.  But 
now  I've  had  time,  and — why  shouldn't  I  come,  too,  to 
look  after  you?" 

As  he  went  on  speaking  the  light  in  Hermione's  face 
flickered  and  died  out.  It  was  when  he  laughed  that  it 
vanished  quite  away. 

"  Thank  you,  Maurice,"  she  said,  quietly.  "Thank  you, 
dear.  I  should  love  to  have  you  with  me,  but  it  would 
be  a  shame!" 

"Why?" 

"Why?  Why — the  best  time  here  is  only  just  be- 
ginning, as  you  say.  It  would  be  selfish  to  drag  you 
across  the  sea  to  a  sick-bed,  or  perhaps  to  a  death-bed." 

"But  the  journey?" 

"Oh,  I  am  accustomed  to  being  a  lonely  woman. 
Think  how  short  a  time  we've  been  married!  I've  near- 
ly always  travelled  alone." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said.  "Of  course  there's  no  dan- 
ger. I  didn't  mean  that,  only — " 

"Only  you  were  ready  to  be  unselfish,"  she  said. 
"  Bless  you  for  it.  But  this  time  I  want  to  be  unselfish. 
You  must  stay  here  to  keep  house,  and  I'll  come  back  the 
first  moment  I  can — the  very  first.  Let's  try  to  think  of 
that — of  the  day  when  I  come  up  the  mountain  again  to 
my— to  our  garden  of  paradise.  All  the  time  I'm  away 
I  shall  pray  for  the  moment  when  I  see  these  columns  of 
the  terrace  above  me,  and  the  geraniums,  and— and  the 
white  wall  of  our  little — home." 

She  stopped.     Then  she  added: 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"And  you." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "But  you  won't  see  me  on  the 
terrace." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because,  of  course,  I  shall  come  to  the  station  to  meet 
you.  That  day  will  be  a  festa." 

She  said  nothing  more.  Her  heart  was  very  full,  and 
of  conflicting  feelings  and  of  voices  that  spoke  in  con- 
tradiction one  of  another.  One  or  two  of  these  voices 
she  longed  to  hush  to  silence,  but  they  were  persistent. 
Then  she  tried  not  to  listen  to  what  they  were  saying. 
But  they  were  pitilessly  distinct. 

Dinner  was  soon  over,  and  Gaspare  came  to  clear 
away.  His  face  was  very  grave,  even  troubled.  He  did 
not  like  this  abrupt  departure  of  his  padrona. 

"You  will  come  back,  signora?"  he  said,  as  he  drew 
away  the  cloth  and  prepared  to  fold  up  the  table  and 
carry  it  in-doors. 

Hermione  managed  to  laugh. 

"Why,  of  course,  Gaspare!  Did  you  think  I  was  go- 
ing away  forever?" 

"Africa  is  a  long  way  off." 

"  Only  nine  hours  from  Trapani.  I  may  be  back  very 
soon.  Will  you  forget  me?" 

"  Did  I  forget  my  padrona  when  she  was  in  England  ?" 
the  boy  replied,  his  expressive  face  suddenly  hardening 
and  his  great  eyes  glittering  with  sullen  fires. 

Hermione  quickly  laid  her  hand  on  his. 

"  I  was  only  laughing.  You  know  your  padrona  trusts 
you  to  remember  her  as  she  remembers  you." 

Gaspare  lifted  up  her  hand  quickly,  kissed  it,  and 
hurried  away,  lifting  his  own  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"These  Sicilians  know  how  to  make  one  love  them," 
said  Hermione,  with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice.  "I  be- 
lieve that  boy  would  die  for  me  if  necessary." 

"  I'm  sure  he  would,"  said  Maurice.  "  But  one  doesn't 
find  a  padrona  like  you  every  day." 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Let  us  walk  to  the  arch,"  she  said.  "I  must  take 
my  last  look  at  the  mountains  with  you." 

Beyond  the  archway  there  was  a  large,  flat  rock,  a 
natural  seat  from  which  could  be  seen  a  range  of  moun- 
tains that  was  invisible  from  the  terrace.  Hermione 
often  sat  on  this  rock  alone,  looking  at  the  distant  peaks, 
whose  outlines  stirred  her  imagination  like  a  wild  and  bar- 
barous music.  Now  she  drew  down  Maurice  beside  her 
and  kept  his  hand  in  hers.  She  was  thinking  of  many 
things,  among  others  of  the  little  episode  that  had  just 
taken  place  with  Gaspare.  His  outburst  of  feeling,  like 
fire  bursting  up  through  a  suddenly  opened  fissure  in  the 
crust  of  the  earth,  had  touched  her  and  something  more. 
It  had  comforted  her,  and  removed  from  her  a  shadowy 
figure  that  had  been  approaching  her,  the  figure  of  a 
fear.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  mountains,  dark  under 
the  silver  of  the  moon. 

"Maurice ,"  she  said .    ' '  Do  you  often  try  to  read  people  ?" 

The  pleasant  look  of  almost  deprecating  modesty  that 
Artois  had  noticed  on  the  night  when  they  dined  together 
in  London  came  to  Delarey's  face. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do,  Hermione,"  he  said.  "Is  it 
easy  ?" 

"I  think — I'm  thinking  it  especially  to-night — that  it 
is  horribly  difficult.  One's  imagination  seizes  hold  of 
trifles,  and  magnifies  them  and  distorts  them.  From 
little  things,  little  natural  things,  one  deduces — I  mean 
one  takes  a  midget  and  makes  of  it  a  monster.  How  one 
ought  to  pray  to  see  clear  in  people  one  loves!  It's  very 
strange,  but  I  think  that  sometimes,  just  because  one 
loves,  one  is  ready  to  be  afraid,  to  doubt,  to  exaggerate, 
to  think  a  thing  is  gone  when  it  is  there.  In  friendship 
one  is  more  ready  to  give  things  their  proper  value — per- 
haps because  everything  is  of  less  value.  Do  you  know 
that  to-night  I  realize  for  the  first  time  the  enormous  dif- 
ference there  is  between  the  love  one  gives  in  love  and 
the  love  one  gives  in  friendship  ?" 
152 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Why,  Hermione?"  he  asked,  simply. 

He  was  looking  a  little  puzzled,  but  still  reverential. 

"I  love  Emile  as  a  friend.     You  know  that." 

"Yes.     Would  you  go  to  Kairouan  if  you  didn't?" 

"If  he  were  to  die  it  would  be  a  great  sorrow,  a  great 
loss  to  me.  I  pray  that  he  may  live.  And  yet — " 

Suddenly  she  took  his  other  hand  in  hers. 

"Oh,  Maurice,  I've  been  thinking  to-day,  I'm  thinking 
now — suppose  it  were  you  who  lay  ill,  perhaps  dying! 
Oh,  the  difference  in  my  feeling,  in  my  dread!  If  you 
were  to  be  taken  from  me,  the  gap  in  my  life!  There 
would  be  nothing- — nothing  left." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  was  going  to  speak,  but 
she  went  on: 

"And  if  you  were  to  be  taken  from  me  how  terrible  it 
would  be  to  feel  that  I'd  ever  had  one  unkind  thought  of 
you,  that  I'd  ever  misinterpreted  one  look  or  word  or 
action  of  yours,  that  I'd  ever,  in  my  egoism  or  my  greed, 
striven  to  thwart  one  natural  impulse  of  yours,  or  to 
force  you  into  travesty  away  from  simplicity!  Don't — 
don't  ever  be  unnatural  or  insincere  with  me,  Maurice, 
even  for  a  moment,  even  for  fear  of  hurting  me.  Be 
always  yourself,  be  the  boy  that  you  still  are  and  that  I 
love  you  for  being." 

She  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  felt  her  body 
trembling. 

"I  think  I'm  always  natural  with  you,"  he  said. 

"  You're  as  natural  as  Gaspare.  Only  once,  and — and 
that  was  my  fault,  I  know;  but  you  mean  so  much  to 
me,  everything,  and  your  honesty  with  me  is  like  God 
walking  with  me." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  stood  up. 

"Please  God  we'll  have  many  more  nights  together 
here,"  she  said — "many  more  blessed,  blessed  nights. 
The  stillness  of  the  hills  is  like  all  the  truth  of  the  world, 
sifted  from  the  falsehood  and  made  into  one  beautiful 
whole.  Oh,  Maurice,  there  is  a  Heaven  on  earth — when 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

two  people  love  each  other  in  the  midst  of  such  a  silence 
as  this." 

They  went  slowly  back  through  the  archway  to  the 
terrace.  Far  below  them  the  sea  gleamed  delicately, 
almost  like  a  pearl.  In  the  distance,  towering  above  the 
sea,  the  snow  of  Etna  gleamed  more  coldly,  with  a  bleak- 
er purity,  a  suggestion  of  remote  mysteries  and  of  un- 
trodden heights.  Above  the  snow  of  Etna  shone  the 
star  of  evening.  Beside  the  sea  shone  the  little  light  in 
the  house  of  the  sirens. 

And  as  they  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  cottage  in 
the  deep  silence  of  the  night,  Hermione  looked  up  at  the 
star  above  the  snow.  But  Maurice  looked  down  at  the 
little  light  beside  the  sea. 


IX 

ONLY  when  Hermione  was  gone,  when  the  train  from 
which  she  waved  her  hand  had  vanished  along  the  line 
that  skirted  the  sea,  and  he  saw  Gaspare  winking  away 
two  tears  that  were  about  to  fall  on  his  brown  cheeks,  did 
Maurice  begin  to  realize  the  largeness  of  the  change  that 
fate  had  wrought  in  his  Sicilian  life.  He  realized  it  more 
sharply  when  he  had  climbed  the  mountain  and  stood 
once  more  upon  the  terrace  before  the  house  of  the  priest. 
Hermione's  personality  was  so  strong,  so  aboundingly  vi- 
tal, that  its  withdrawal  made  an  impression  such  as  that 
made  by  an  intense  silence  suddenly  succeeding  a  pow- 
erful burst  of  music.  Just  at  first  Maurice  felt  startled, 
almost  puzzled  like  a  child,  inclined  to  knit  his  brows 
and  stare  with  wide  eyes  and  wonder  what  could  be 
going  to  happen  to  him  in  a  world  that  was  altered.  Now 
he  was  conscious  of  being  far  away  from  the  land  where 
he  had  been  born  and  brought  up,  conscious  of  it  as  he 
had  not  been  before,  even  on  his  first  day  in  Sicily.  He 
did  not  feel  an  alien.  He  had  no  sensation  of  exile. 
But  he  felt,  as  he  had  not  felt  when  with  Hermione,  the 
glory  of  this  world  of  sea  and  mountains,  of  olive-trees 
and  vineyards,  the  strangeness  of  its  great  welcome  to 
him,  the  magic  of  his  readiness  to  give  himself  to  it. 

He  had  been  like  a  dancing  faun  in  the  sunshine  and 
the  moonlight  of  Sicily.  Now,  for  a  moment,  he  stood 
still,  very  still,  and  watched  and  listened,  and  was  grave, 
and  was  aware  of  himself,  the  figure  in  the  foreground  of 
a  picture  that  was  marvellous. 

The  enthusiasm  of  Hermione  for  Sicily,  the  flood  of 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

understanding  of  it,  and  feeling  for  it  that  she  had 
poured  out  in  the  past  days  of  spring,  instead  of  teaching 
Maurice  to  see  and  to  feel,  seemed  to  have  kept  him  back 
from  the  comprehension  to  which  they  had  been  meant 
to  lead  him.  With  Hermione,  the  watcher,  he  had  been 
but  as  a  Sicilian,  another  Gaspare  in  a  different  rank  of 
life.  Without  Hermione  he  was  Gaspare  and  something 
more.  It  was  as  if  he  still  danced  in  the  tarantella,  but 
had  now  for  the  moment  the  power  to  stand  and  watch 
his  performance  and  see  that  it  was  wonderful. 

This  was  just  at  first,  in  the  silence  that  followed  the 
music. 

He  gazed  at  Etna,  and  thought:  "How  extraordinary 
that  I'm  living  up  here  on  a  mountain  and  looking  at 
the  smoke  from  Etna,  and  that  there's  no  English-speak- 
ing person  here  but  me!"  He  looked  at  Gaspare  and 
at  Lucrezia,  and  thought:  "What  a  queer  trio  of  com- 
panions we  are !  How  strange  and  picturesque  those  two 
would  look  in  England,  how  different  they  are  from  the 
English,  and  yet  how  at  home  with  them  I  feel!  By 
Jove,  it's  wonderful!"  And  then  he  was  thrilled  by  a 
sense  of  romance,  of  adventure,  that  had  never  been  his 
when  his  English  wife  was  there  beside  him,  calling  his 
mind  to  walk  with  hers,  his  heart  to  beat  with  hers,  call- 
ing with  the  great  sincerity  of  a  very  perfect  love. 

"The  poor  signora!"  said  Gaspare.  "I  saw  her  be- 
ginning to  cry  when  the  train  went  away.  She  loves  my 
country  and  cannot  bear  to  leave  it.  She  ought  to  live 
here  always,  as  I  do." 

"Courage,  Gaspare!"  said  Maurice,  putting  his  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "  She'll  come  back  very  soon." 

Gaspare  lifted  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  then  drew  out  a 
red-and-yellow  handkerchief  with  "Caro  mio"  embroid- 
ered on  it  and  frankly  wiped  them. 

"The  poor  signora!"  he  repeated.  "She  did  not  like 
to  leave  us." 

"Let's  think  of  her  return,"  said  Maurice. 
156 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  turned  away  suddenly  from  the  terrace  and  went 
into  the  house. 

When  he  was  there,  looking  at  the  pictures  and  books, 
at  the  open  piano  with  some  music  on  it,  at  a  piece  of 
embroidery  with  a  needle  stuck  through  the  half -finished 
petal  of  a  flower,  he  began  to  feel  deserted.  The  day  was 
before  him.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  What  was 
there  for  him  to  do?  For  a  moment  he  felt  what  he 
would  have  called  "stranded."  He  was  immensely 
accustomed  to  Hermione,  and  her  splendid  vitality  of 
mind  and  body  filled  up  the  interstices  of  a  day  with  such 
ease  that  one  did  not  notice  that  interstices  existed,  or 
think  they  could  exist.  Her  physical  health  and  her 
ardent  mind  worked  hand-in-hand  to  create  around  her 
an  atmosphere  into  which  boredom  could  not  come,  yet 
from  which  bustle  was  excluded.  Maurice  felt  the  silence 
within  the  house  to  be  rather  dreary  than  peaceful.  He 
touched  the  piano,  endeavoring  to  play  with  one  finger 
the  tune  of  "O  sole  miol"  He  took  up  two  or  three 
books,  pulled  the  needle  out  of  Hermione's  embroidery, 
then  stuck  it  in  again.  The  feeling  of  loss  began  to  grow 
upon  him.  Oddly  enough,  he  thought,  he  had  not  felt 
it  very  strongly  at  the  station  when  the  train  ran  out. 
Nor  had  it  been  with  him  upon  the  terrace.  There  he 
had  been  rather  conscious  of  change  than  of  loss — of 
change  that  was  not  without  excitement.  But  now— 
He  began  to  think  of  the  days  ahead  of  him  with  a  faint 
apprehension. 

"  But  I'll  live  out-of-doors,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It's 
only  in  the  house  that  I  feel  bad  like  this.  I'll  live  out- 
of-doors  and  take  lots  of  exercise,  and  I  shall  be  all  right." 

He  had  again  taken  up  a  book,  almost  without  know- 
ing it,  and  now,  holding  it  in  his  hand,  he  went  to  the 
head  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  terrace  and  looked  out. 
Gaspare  was  sitting  by  the  wall  with  a  very  dismal  face. 
He  stared  silently  at  his  master  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
said; 

157 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"The  signora  should  have  taken  us  with  her  to  Africa. 
It  would  have  been  better." 

"It  was  impossible,  Gaspare,"  Maurice  said,  rather 
hastily.  "  She  is  going  to  a  poor  signore  who  is  ill." 

"I  know." 

The  boy  paused  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"Is  the  signore  her  brother?" 

"Her  brother!     No." 

"Is  he  a  relation?" 

"No." 

"Is  he  very  old?" 

"Certainly  not." 

Gaspare  repeated: 

"The  signora  should  have  taken  us  with  her  to 
Africa." 

This  time  he  spoke  with  a  certain  doggedness.  Mau- 
rice, he  scarcely  knew  why,  felt  slightly  uncomfortable 
and  longed  to  create  a  diversion.  He  looked  at  the  book 
he  was  holding  in  his  hand  and  saw  that  it  was  The 
Thousand  and  One  Nights,  in  Italian.  He  wanted  to 
do  something  definite,  to  distract  his  thoughts — more 
than  ever  now  after  his  conversation  with  Gaspare. 
An  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"Come  under  the  oak-trees,  Gaspare,"  he  said,  "and 
I'll  read  to  you.  It  will  be  a  lesson  in  accent.  You 
shall  be  my  professore." 

"Si,  signore." 

The  response  was  listless,  and  Gaspare  followed  his 
master  with  listless  footsteps  down  the  little  path  that 
led  to  the  grove  of  oak-trees  that  grew  among  giant 
rocks,  on  which  the  lizards  were  basking. 

"There  are  stories  of  Africa  in  this  book,"  said  Mau- 
rice, opening  it. 

Gaspare  looked  more  alert. 

"Of  where  the  signora  will  be?" 

"Chi  lo  sa?" 

He  lay  down  on  the  warm  ground,  set  his  back  against 
158 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  rock,  opened  the  book  at  hazard,  and  began  to  read 
slowly  and  carefully,  while  Gaspare,  stretched  on  the 
grass,  listened,  with  his  chin  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
The  story  was  of  the  fisherman  and  the  Genie  who  was 
confined  in  a  casket,  and  soon  Gaspare  was  entirely  ab- 
sorbed by  it.  He  kept  his  enormous  brown  eyes  fixed 
upon  Maurice's  face,  and  moved  his  lips,  silently  form- 
ing, after  him,  the  words  of  the  tale.  When  it  was  fin- 
ished he  said: 

"I  should  not  like  to  be  kept  shut  up  like  that, 
signore.  If  I  could  not  be  free  I  would  kill  myself.  I 
will  always  be  free." 

He  stretched  himself  on  the  warm  ground  like  a 
young  animal,  then  added: 

"I  shall  not  take  a  wife — ever." 

Maurice  shut  the  book  and  stretched  himself,  too,  then 
moved  away  from  the  rock,  and  lay  at  full  length  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head  and  his  eyes,  nearly 
shut,  fixed  upon  the  glimmer  of  the  sea. 

"Why  not,  Gasparino?" 

"Because  if  one  has  a  wife  one  is  not  free." 

"Hm!" 

"If  I  had  a  wife  I  should  be  like  the  Mago  Africano 
when  he  was  shut  up  in  the  box." 

"And  I  ?"  Maurice  said,  suddenly  sitting  up.  "What 
about  me?" 

For  the  first  time  it  seemed  to  occur  to  Gaspare  that 
he  was  speaking  to  a  married  man.  He  sat  up,  too. 

"  Oh,  but  you — you  are  a  signore  and  rich.  It  is  dif- 
ferent. I  am  poor.  I  shall  have  many  loves,  first  one 
and  then  another,  but  I  shall  never  take  a  wife.  My 
father  wishes  me  to  when  I  have  finished  the  military 
service,  but"— and  he  laughed  at  his  own  ingenious 
comparison—"!  am  like  the  Mago  Africano  when  he 
was  let  out  of  the  casket.  I  am  free,  and  I  will  never 
let  myself  be  stoppered-up  as  he  did.  Per  Dio!" 

Suddenly  Maurice  frowned. 
159 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"It  isn't  like — "  he  began. 

Then  he  stopped.  The  lines  in  his  forehead  disap- 
peared, and  he  laughed. 

"I  am  pretty  free  here,  too,"  he  said.  "At  least, 
I  feel  so." 

The  dreariness  that  had  come  upon  him  inside  the 
cottage  had  disappeared  now  that  he  was  in  the  open 
air.  As  he  looked  down  over  the  sloping  mountain 
flank — dotted  with  trees  near  him,  but  farther  away 
bare  and  sunbaked — to  the  sea  with  its  magic  coast-line, 
that  seemed  to  promise  enchantments  to  wilful  travel- 
lers passing  by  upon  the  purple  waters,  as  he  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  distant  plain  with  its  lemon  groves,  its 
winding  river,  its  little  vague  towns  of  narrow  houses 
from  which  thin  trails  of  smoke  went  up,  and  let  them 
journey  on  to  the  great,  smoking  mountain  lifting  its 
snows  into  the  blue,  and  its  grave,  not  insolent,  pa- 
nache, he  felt  an  immense  sense  of  happy-go-lucky  free- 
dom with  the  empty  days  before  him.  His  intellect 
was  loose  like  a  colt  on  a  prairie.  There  was  no  one 
near  to  catch  it,  to  lead  it  to  any  special  object,  to 
harness  it  and  drive  it  onward  in  any  fixed  direction. 
He  need  no  longer  feel  respect  for  a  cleverness  greater 
than  his  own,  or  try  to  understand  subtleties  of  thought 
and  sensation  that  were  really  outside  of  his  capacities. 
He  did  not  say  this  to  himself,  but  whence  sprang  this 
new  and  dancing  feeling  of  emancipation  that  was  com- 
ing upon  him?  Why  did  he  remember  the  story  he 
had  just  been  reading,  and  think  of  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment as  a  Genie  emerging  cloudily  into  the  light  of  day 
from  a  narrow  prison  which  had  been  sunk  beneath  the 
sea?  Why?  For,  till  now,  he  had  never  had  any 
consciousness  of  imprisonment.  One  only  becomes  con- 
scious of  some  things  when  one  is  freed  from  them. 
Maurice's  happy  efforts  to  walk  on  the  heights  with  the 
enthusiasms  of  Hermione  had  surely  never  tired  him, 
but  rather  braced  him.  Yet,  left  alone  with  peasants, 
1 60 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

with  Lucrezia  and  Gaspare,  there  was  something  in  him, 
some  part  of  his  nature,  which  began  to  frolic  like  a 
child  let  out  of  school.  He  felt  more  utterly  at  his  ease 
than  he  had  ever  felt  before.  With  these  peasants  he 
could  let  his  mind  be  perfectly  lazy.  To  them  he  seemed 
instructed,  almost  a  god  of  knowledge. 

Suddenly  Maurice  laughed,  showing  his  white  teeth. 
He  stretched  up  his  arms  to  the  blue  heaven  and  the 
sun  that  sent  its  rays  filtering  down  to  him  through  the 
leaves  of  the  oak-trees,  and  he  laughed  again  gently. 

"What  is  it,  signore?" 

"It  is  good  to  live,  Gaspare.  It  is  good  to  be  young 
out  here  on  the  mountain -side,  and  to  send  learning 
and  problems  and  questions  of  conscience  to  the  devil. 
After  all,  real  life  is  simple  enough  if  only  you'll  let  it 
be.  I  believe  the  complications  of  life,  half  of  them, 
and  its  miseries  too,  more  than  half  of  them,  are  the 
inventions  of  the  brains  of  the  men  and  women  we  call 
clever.  They  can't  let  anything  alone.  They  bother 
about  themselves  and  everybody  else.  By  Jove,  if  you 
knew  how  they  talk  about  life  in  London!  They'd 
make  you  think  it  was  the  most  complicated,  rotten, 
intriguing  business  imaginable;  all  misunderstandings 
and  cross-purposes,  and  the  Lord  knows  what.  But  it 
isn't.  It's  jolly  simple,  or  it  can  be.  Here  we  are, 
you  and  I,  and  we  aren't  at  loggerheads,  and  we've  got 
enough  to  eat  and  a  pair  of  boots  apiece,  and  the  sun, 
and  the  sea,  and  old  Etna  behaving  nicely — and  what 
more  do  we  want?" 

"Signore — " 

"Well?" 

"I  don't  understand  English." 

"  Mamma  mia!"  Delarey  roared  with  laughter.  "And 
I've  been  talking  English.  Well,  Gaspare,  I  can't  say  it 
in  Sicilian — can  I  ?  Let's  see." 

He  thought  a  minute.     Then  he  said: 

"It's  something  like  this.  Life  is  simple  and  splen- 
161 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

did  if  you  let  it  alone.  But  if  you  worry  it — well,  then, 
like  a  dog,  it  bites  you." 

He  imitated  a  dog  biting.     Gaspare  nodded  seriously. 

"Mi  piace  la  vita,"  he  remarked,  calmly. 

"E  anche  mi  piace  a  me,"  said  Maurice.  "Now  I'll 
give  you  a  lesson  in  English,  and  when  the  signora  comes 
back  you  can  talk  to  her." 

"Si,  signore." 

The  afternoon  had  gone  in  a  flash.  Evening  came 
while  they  were  still  under  the  oak-trees,  and  the  voice 
of  Lucrezia  was  heard  calling  from  the  terrace,  with 
the  peculiar  baaing  intonation  that  is  characteristic  of 
southern  women  of  the  lower  classes. 

Gaspare  baaed  ironically  in  reply. 

"It  isn't  dinner-time  already?"  said  Maurice,  getting 
up  reluctantly. 

"Yes,  meester  sir,  eef  you  pleesi,"  said  Gaspare,  with 
conscious  pride.  "We  go  way." 

"Bravo.     Well,  I'm  getting  hungry." 

As  Maurice  sat  alone  at  dinner  on  the  terrace,  while 
Gaspare  and  Lucrezia  ate  and  chattered  in  the  kitchen, 
he  saw  presently  far  down  below  the  shining  of  the  light 
in  the  house  of  the  sirens.  It  came  out  when  the  stars 
came  out,  this  tiny  star  of  the  sea.  He  felt  a  little 
lonely  as  he  sat  there  eating  all  by  himself,  and  when 
the  light  was  kindled  near  the  water,  that  lay  like  a 
dream  waiting  to  be  sweetly  disturbed  by  the  moon, 
he  was  pleased  as  by  the  greeting  of  a  friend.  The  light 
was  company.  He  watched  it  while  he  ate.  It  was  a 
friendly  light,  more  friendly  than  the  light  of  the  stars 
to  him.  For  he  connected  it  with  earthly  things — 
things  a  man  could  understand.  He  imagined  Mad- 
dalena  in  the  cottage  where  he  had  slept  preparing  the 
supper  for  Salvatore,  who  was  presently  going  off  to 
sea  to  spear  fish,  or  net  them,  or  take  them  with  lines 
for  the  market  on  the  morrow.  There  was  bread  and 
cheese  on  the  table,  and  the  good  red  wine  that  could 
162 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

harm  nobody,  wine  that  had  all  the  laughter  of  the 
sunrays  in  it.  And  the  cottage  door  was  open  to  the 
sea.  The  breeze  came  in  and  made  the  little  lamp  that 
burned  beneath  the  Madonna  flicker.  He  saw  the  big, 
white  bed,  and  the  faces  of  the  saints,  of  the  actresses, 
of  the  smiling  babies  that  had  watched  him  while  he 
slept.  And  he  saw  the  face  of  his  peasant  hostess,  the 
face  he  had  kissed  in  the  dawn,  ere  he  ran  down  among 
the  olive  -  trees  to  plunge  into  the  sea.  He  saw  the 
eyes  that  were  like  black  jewels,  the  little  feathers  of 
gold  in  the  hair  about  her  brow.  She  was  a  pretty, 
simple  girl.  He  liked  the  look  of  curiosity  in  her  eyes. 
To  her  he  was  something  touched  with  wonder,  a  man 
from  a  far-off  land.  Yet  she  was  at  ease  with  him  and 
he  with  her.  That  drop  of  Sicilian  blood  in  his  veins 
was  worth  something  to  him  in  this  isle  of  the  south. 
It  made  him  one  with  so  much,  with  the  sunburned 
sons  of  the  hills  and  of  the  sea  -  shore,  with  the  sun- 
burned daughters  of  the  soil.  It  made  him  one  with 
them — or  more — one  of  them.  He  had  had  a  kiss  from 
Sicily  now — a  kiss  in  the  dawn  by  the  sea,  from  lips 
fresh  with  the  sea  wind  and  warm  with  the  life  that 
is  young.  And  what  had  it  meant  to  him?  He  had 
taken  it  carelessly  with  a  laugh.  He  had  washed  it  from 
his  lips  in  the  sea.  Now  he  remembered  it,  and,  in 
thought,  he  took  the  kiss  again,  but  more  slowly,  more 
seriously.  And  he  took  it  at  evening,  at  the  coming  of 
night,  instead  of  at  dawn,  at  the  coming  of  day  —  his 
kiss  from  Sicily. 

He  took  it  at  evening. 

He  had  finished  dinner  now,  and  he  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  drew  a  cigar  from  his  pocket.  Then  he 
struck  a  match.  As  he  was  putting  it  to  the  cigar  he 
looked  again  towards  the  sea  and  saw  the  light. 

"  Damn!" 

"Signore!" 

Gaspare  came  running. 

163 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"I  didn't  'call,  Gaspare,  I  only  said  'Mamma  mia!' 
because  I  burned  my  fingers." 

He  struck  another  match  and  lit  the  cigar. 

"Signore — "  Gaspare  began,  and  stopped. 

"Yes?     What  is  it?" 

"Signore,  I— Lucrezia,  you  know,  has  relatives  at 
Castel  Vecchio." 

Castel  Vecchio  was  the  nearest  village,  perched  on 
the  hill-top  opposite,  twenty  minutes'  walk  from  the 
cottage. 

"Ebbene?" 

"Ebbene,  signorino,  to-night  there  is  a  festa  in  their 
house.  It  is  the  festa  of  Pancrazio.her  cousin.  Sebasti- 
ano  will  be  there  to  play,  and  they  will  dance,  and — " 

"Lucrezia  wants  to  go?" 

"Si,  signore,  but  she  is  afraid  to  ask." 

"Afraid!  Of  course  she  can  go,  she  must  go.  Tell 
her.  But  at  night  can  she  come  back  alone?" 

"Signore,  I  am  invited,  but  I  said — I  did  not  like  the 
first  evening  that  the  padrona  is  away — if  you  would 
come  they  would  take  it  as  a  great  honor." 

"Go,  Gaspare,  take  Lucrezia,  and  bring  her  back 
safely." 

"And  you,  signore?" 

"I  would  come,  too,  but  I  think  a  stranger  would 
spoil  the  festa." 

"Oh  no,  signore,  on  the  contrary — 

"I  know — you  think  I  shall  be  sad  alone." 

"Si,  signore." 

"You  are  good  to  think  of  your  padrone,  but  I  shall 
be  quite  content.  You  go  with  Lucrezia  and  come 
back  as  late  as  you  like.  Tell  Lucrezia !  Off  with  you !" 

Gaspare  hesitated  no  longer.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
had  put  on  his  best  clothes  and  a  soft  hat,  and  stuck  a 
large,  red  rose  above  each  ear.  He  came  to  say  good- 
bye with  Lucrezia  on  his  arm.  Her  head  was  wrapped 
in  a  brilliant  yellow-and-white  shawl  with  saffron-col- 
164 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

ored  fringes.  They  went  off  together  laughing  and 
skipping  down  the  stony  path  like  two  children. 

When  their  footsteps  died  away  Delarey,  who  had 
walked  to  the  archway  to  see  them  off,  returned  slowly 
to  the  terrace  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down,  puffing 
at  his  cigar.  The  silence  was  profound.  The  rising 
moon  cast  its  pale  beams  upon  the  white  walls  of  the 
cottage,  the  white  seats  of  the  terrace.  There  was  no 
wind.  The  leaves  of  the  oaks  and  the  olive-trees 
beneath  the  wall  were  motionless.  Nothing  stirred. 
Above  the  cottage  the  moonlight  struck  on  the  rocks, 
showed  the  nakedness  of  the  mountain-side.  A  curious 
sense  of  solitude,  such  as  he  had  never  known  before, 
took  possession  of  Delarey.  It  did  not  make  him  feel 
sad  at  first,  but  only  emancipated,  free  as  he  had  never 
yet  felt  free,  like  one  free  in  a  world  that  was  curiously 
young,  curiously  unfettered  by  any  chains  of  civiliza- 
tion, almost  savagely,  primitively  free.  So  might  an 
animal  feel  ranging  to  and  fro  in  a  land  where  man  had 
not  set  foot.  But  he  was  an  animal  without  its  mate 
in  the  wonderful  breathless  night.  And  the  moonlight 
grew  about  him  as  he  walked,  treading  softly  he  scarce 
knew  why,  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro. 

Hermione  was  nearing  the  coast  now.  Soon  she  would 
be  on  board  the  steamer  and  on  her  way  across  the  sea 
to  Africa.  She  would  be  on  her  way  to  Africa — and  to 
Artois. 

Delarey  recalled  his  conversation  with  Gaspare,  when 
the  boy  had  asked  him  whether  Artois  was  Hermione's 
brother,  or  a  relation,  or  whether  he  was  old.  He  re- 
membered Gaspare's  intonation  when  he  said,  almost 
sternly,  "The  signora  should  have  taken  us  with  her 
to  Africa."  Evidently  he  was  astonished.  Why?  It 
must  have  been  because  he — Delarey — had  let  his  wife 
go  to  visit  a  man  in  a  distant  city  alone.  Sicilians  did 
not  understand  certain  things.  He  had  realized  his  own 
freedom— now  he  began  to  realize  Hermione's.  How 
165 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

quickly  she  had  made  up  her  mind.  While  he  was 
sleeping  she  had  decided  everything.  She  had  even 
looked  out  the  trains.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  to 
ask  him  what  to  do.  And  she  had  not  asked  him  to  go 
with  her.  Did  he  wish  she  had  ? 

A  new  feeling  began  to  stir  within  him,  unreasonable, 
absurd.  It  had  come  to  him  with  the  night  and  his 
absolute  solitude  in  the  night.  It  was  not  anger  as  yet. 
It  was  a  faint,  dawning  sense  of  injury,  but  so  faint  that 
it  did  not  rouse,  but  only  touched  gently,  almost  furtive- 
ly, some  spirit  drowsing  within  him,  like  a  hand  that 
touches,  then  withdraws  itself,  then  steals  forward  to 
touch  again. 

He  began  to  walk  a  little  faster  up  and  down,  always 
keeping  along  the  terrace  wall. 

He  was  primitive  man  to-night,  and  primitive  feelings 
were  astir  in  him.  He  had  not  known  he  possessed  them, 
yet  he — the  secret  soul  of  him — did  not  shrink  from  them 
in  any  surprise.  To  something  in  him,  some  part  of  him, 
they  came  as  things  not  unfamiliar. 

Suppose  he  had  shown  surprise  at  Hermione's  project  ? 
Suppose  he  had  asked  her  not  to  go?  Suppose  he  had 
told  her  not  to  go  ?  What  would  she  have  said  ?  What 
would  she  have  done  ?  He  had  never  thought  of  object- 
ing to  this  journey,  but  he  might  have  objected.  Many 
a  man  would  have  objected.  This  was  their  honey- 
moon— hers  and  his.  To  many  it  would  seem  strange 
that  a  wife  should  leave  her  husband  during  their  honey- 
moon, to  travel  across  the  sea  to  another  man,  a  friend, 
even  if  he  were  ill,  perhaps  dying.  He  did  not  doubt 
Hermione.  No  one  who  knew  her  as  he  did  could  doubt 
her,  yet  nevertheless,  now  that  he  was  quite  companion- 
less  in  the  night,  he  felt  deserted,  he  felt  as  if  every  one 
else  were  linked  with  life,  while  he  stood  entirely  alone. 
Hermione  was  travelling  to  her  friend.  Lucrezia  and 
Gaspare  had  gone  to  their  festa,  to  dance,  to  sing,  to  joke, 
to  make  merry,  to  make  love — who  knew  ?  Down  in  the 
1 66 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

village  the  people  were  gossiping  at  one  another's  doors, 
were  lounging  together  in  the  piazza,  were  playing  cards 
in  the  caffes,  were  singing  and  striking  the  guitars  under 
the  pepper-trees  bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  moon.  And 
he — what  was  there  for  him  in  this  night  that  woke  up 
desires  for  joy,  for  the  sweetness  of  the  life  that  sings  in 
the  passionate  aisles  of  the  south  ? 

He  stood  still  by  the  wall.  Two  or  three  lights  twin- 
kled on  the  height  where  Castel  Vecchio  perched  clinging 
to  its  rock  above  the  sea.  Sebastiano  was  there  setting 
his  lips  to  the  ceramella,  and  shooting  bold  glances  of 
tyrannical  love  at  Lucrezia  out  of  his  audacious  eyes. 
The  peasants,  dressed  in  their  gala  clothes,  were  forming 
in  a  circle  for  the  country  dance.  The  master  of  the 
ceremonies  was  shouting  out  his  commands  in  bastard 
French:  "Tournez!"  "A  votre  place!"  "Prenez  la  don- 
ne!"  "Danseztoutes!"  Eyes  were  sparkling,  cheeks  were 
flushing,  lips  were  parting  as  gay  activity  created  warmth 
in  bodies  and  hearts.  Then  would  come  the  tarantella, 
with  Gaspare  spinning  like  a  top  and  tripping  like  a 
Folly  in  a  veritable  madness  of  movement.  And  as  the 
night  wore  on  the  dance  would  become  wilder,  the  laugh- 
ter louder,  the  fire  of  jokes  more  fierce.  Healths  would 
be  drunk  with  clinking  glasses,  brindisi  shouted,  tricks 
played.  Cards  would  be  got  out.  There  would  be  a 
group  intent  on  "Scopa,"  another  calling  "Mi  staio!" 
"Carta  da  vente!"  throwing  down  the  soldi  and  picking 
them  up  greedily  in  "Sette  e  mezzo."  Stories  would  be 
told,  bets  given  and  taken.  The  smoke  would  curl  up 
from  the  long,  black  cigars  the  Sicilians  love.  Dark- 
browed  men  and  women,  wild -haired  boys,  and  girls  in 
gay  shawls,  with  great  rings  swinging  from  their  ears, 
would  give  themselves  up  as  only  southerners  can  to  the 
joy  of  the  passing  moment,  forgetting  poverty,  hardship, 
and  toil,  grinding  taxation,  all  the  cares  and  the  sorrows 
that  encompass  the  peasant's  life,  forgetting  the  flight  of 
the  hours,  forgetting  everything  in  the  passion  of  the 
167 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

festa,  the  dedication  of  all  their  powers  to  the  laughing 
worship  of  fun. 

Yes,  the  passing  hour  would  be  forgotten.  That  was 
certain.  It  would  be  dawn  ere  Lucrezia  and  Gaspare 
returned. 

Delarey's  cigar  was  burned  to  a  stump.  He  took  it 
from  his  lips  and  threw  it  with  all  his  force  over  the  wall 
towards  the  sea.  Then  he  put  his  hands  on  the  wall  and 
leaned  over  it,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  sea.  The  sense  of 
injury  grew  in  him.  He  resented  the  joys  of  others  in 
this  beautiful  night,  and  he  felt  as  if  all  the  world  were  at 
a  festa,  as  if  all  the  world  were  doing  wonderful  things  in 
the  wonderful  night,  while  he  was  left  solitary  to  eat  out 
his  heart  beneath  the  moon.  He  did  not  reason  against 
his  feelings  and  tell  himself  they  were  absurd.  The 
dancing  faun  does  not  reason  in  his  moments  of  ennui. 
He  rebels.  Delarey  rebelled. 

He  had  been  invited  to  the  festa  and  he  had  refused  to 
go — almost  eagerly  he  had  refused.  Why  ?  There  had 
been  something  secret  in  his  mind  which  had  prompted 
him.  He  had  said — and  even  to  himself — that  he  did 
not  go  lest  his  presence  might  bring  a  disturbing  element 
into  the  peasants'  gayety.  But  was  that  his  reason? 

Leaning  over  the  wall  he  looked  down  upon  the  sea. 
The  star  that  seemed  caught  in  the  sea  smiled  at  him, 
summoned  him.  Its  gold  was  like  the  gold,  the  little 
feathers  of  gold  in  the  dark  hair  of  a  Sicilian  girl  singing 
the  song  of  the  May  beside  the  sea: 

"Maju  torna,  maju  veni 
Cu  li  belli  soi  ciureri — " 

He  tried  to  hum  the  tune,  but  it  had  left  his  memory. 
He  longed  to  hear  it  once  more  under  the  olive-trees  of 
the  Sirens'  Isle. 

Again  his  thought  went  to  Hermione.  Very  soon  she 
would  be  out  there,  far  out  on  the  silver  of  the  sea.  Had 
1 68 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

she  wanted  him  to  go  with  her  ?  He  knew  that  she  had. 
Yet  she  had  not  asked  him  to  go,  had  not  hinted  at  his 
going.  Even  she  had  refused  to  let  him  go.  And  he 
had  not  pressed  it.  Something  had  held  him  back  from 
insisting,  something  secret,  and  something  secret  had 
kept  her  from  accepting  his  suggestion.  She  was  going 
to  her  greatest  friend,  to  the  man  she  had  known  in- 
timately, long  before  she  had  known  him — Delarey — 
and  he  was  left  alone.  In  England  he  had  never  had  a 
passing  moment  of  jealousy  of  Artois;  but  now,  to-night, 
mingled  with  his  creeping  resentment  against  the  joys 
of  the  peasants,  of  those  not  far  from  him  under  the  moon 
of  Sicily,  there  was  a  sensation  of  jealousy  which  came 
from  the  knowledge  that  his  wife  was  travelling  to  her 
friend.  That  friend  might  be  dead,  or  she  might  nurse 
him  back  to  life.  Delarey  thought  of  her  by  his  bedside, 
ministering  to  him,  performing  the  intimate  offices  of  the 
attendant  on  a  sick  man,  raising  him  up  on  his  pillows, 
putting  a  cool  hand  on  his  burning  forehead,  sitting  by 
him  at  night  in  the  silence  of  a  shadowy  room ,  and  quite 
alone. 

He  thought  of  all  this,  and  the  Sicilian  that  was  in  him 
grew  suddenly  hot  with  a  burning  sense  of  anger,  a  burn- 
ing desire  for  action,  preventive  or  revengeful.  It  was 
quite  unreasonable,  as  unreasonable  as  the  vagrant  im- 
pulse of  a  child,  but  it  was  strong  as  the  full-grown  de- 
termination of  a  man.  Hermione  had  belonged  to  him. 
She  was  his.  And  the  old  Sicilian  blood  in  him  pro- 
tested against  that  which  would  be  if  Artois  were  still 
alive  when  she  reached  Africa. 

But  it  was  too  late  now.  He  could  do  nothing.  He 
could  only  look  at  the  shining  sea  on  which  the  ship 
would  bear  her  that  very  night. 

His  inaction  and  solitude  began  to  torture  him.     If 

he  went  in  he  knew  he  could  not  sleep.    The  mere  thought 

of  the  festa  would  prevent  him  from  sleeping.     Again  he 

looked  at  the  lights  of  Castel  Vecchio.     He  saw  only  one 

169 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

now,  and  imagined  it  set  in  the  window  of  Pancrazio's 
house.  He  even  fancied  that  down  the  mountain-side 
and  across  the  ravine  there  floated  to  him  the  faint  wail 
of  the  ceramella  playing  a  dance  measure. 

Suddenly  he  knew  that  he  could  not  remain  all  night 
alone  on  the  mountain-side. 

He  went  quickly  into  the  cottage,  got  his  soft  hat,  then 
went  from  room  to  room,  closing  the  windows  and  bar- 
ring the  wooden  shutters.  When  he  had  come  out  again 
upon  the  steps  and  locked  the  cottage  door  he  stood  for 
a  moment  hesitating  with  the  large  door-key  in  his  hand. 
He  said  to  himself  that  he  was  going  to  the  festa  at  Cas- 
tel  Vecchio.  Of  course  he  was  going  there,  to  dance 
the  country  dances  and  join  in  the  songs  of  Sicily.  He 
slipped  the  key  into  his  pocket  and  went  down  the  steps 
to  the  terrace.  But  there  he  hesitated  again.  He  took 
the  key  out  of  his  pocket,  looked  at  it  as  it  lay  in  his  hand, 
then  put  it  down  on  the  sill  of  the  sitting-room  window. 

"  If  any  one  comes,  there  isn't  very  much  to  steal,"  he 
thought.  "And,  perhaps —  '  Again  he  looked  at  the 
lights  of  Castel  Vecchio,  then  down  towards  the  sea.  The 
star  of  the  sea  shone  steadily  and  seemed  to  summon 
him.  He  left  the  key  on  the  window-sill,  with  a  quick 
gesture  pulled  his  hat-brim  down  farther  over  his  eyes, 
hastened  along  the  terrace,  and,  turning  to  the  left  be- 
yond the  archway,  took  the  path  that  led  through  the 
olive-trees  towards  Isola  Bella  and  the  sea. 

Through  the  wonderful  silence  of  the  night  among  the 
hills  there  came  now  a  voice  that  was  thrilling  to  his  ears 
— the  voice  of  youth  by  the  sea  calling  to  the  youth  that 
was  in  him. 

Hermione  was  travelling  to  her  friend.  Must  he  re- 
main quite  friendless? 

All  the  way  down  to  the  sea  he  heard  the  calling  of  the 
voice. 


As  dawn  was  breaking,  Lucrezia  and  Gaspare  climbed 
slowly  up  the  mountain-side  towards  the  cottage.  Lu- 
crezia's  eyes  were  red,  for  she  had  just  bidden  good- 
bye to  Sebastiano,  who  was  sailing  that  day  for  the 
Lipari  Isles,  and  she  did  not  know  how  soon  he  would 
be  back.  Sebastiano  had  not  cried.  He  loved  change, 
and  was  radiant  at  the  prospect  of  his  voyage.  But 
Lucrezia's  heart  was  torn.  She  knew  Sebastiano,  knew 
his  wild  and  adventurous  spirit,  his  reckless  passion  for 
life,  and  the  gifts  it  scatters  at  the  feet  of  lusty  youth. 
There  were  maidens  in  the  Lipari  Isles.  They  might  be 
beautiful.  She  had  scarcely  been  jealous  of  Sebastiano 
before  her  betrothal  to  him,  for  then  she  had  had  no 
rights  over  him,  and  she  was  filled  with  the  spirit  of 
humbleness  that  still  dwells  in  the  women  of  Sicily,  the 
spirit  that  whispers  "Man  may  do  what  he  will."  But 
now  something  had  arisen  within  her  to  do  battle  with 
that  spirit.  She  wanted  Sebastiano  for  her  very  own, 
and  the  thought  of  his  freedom  when  away  tormented 
her. 

Gaspare  comforted  her  in  perfunctory  fashion. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  he  said.  "When  you  are 
married  you  can  keep  him  in  the  house,  and  make  him 
spin  the  flax  for  you." 

And  he  laughed  aloud.  But  when  they  drew  near  to 
the  cottage  he  said: 

"Zitta,  Lucrezia!  The  padrone  is  asleep.  We  must 
steal  in  softly  and  not  waken  him." 

On  tiptoe  they  crept  along  the  terrace. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"He  will  have  left  the  door  open  for  us,"  whispered 
Gaspare.  "  He  has  the  revolver  beside  him  and  will  not 
have  been  afraid." 

But  when  they  stood  before  the  steps  the  door  was 
shut.  Gaspare  tried  it  gently.  It  was  locked. 

"Phew!"  he  whistled.  "We  cannot  get  in,  for  we 
cannot  wake  him." 

Lucrezia  shivered.     Sorrow  had  made  her  feel  cold. 

"Mamma  mia!"  she  began. 

But  Gaspare's  sharp  eyes  had  spied  the  key  lying  on 
the  window-sill.  He  darted  to  it  and  picked  it  up. 
Then  he  stared  at  the  locked  door  and  at  Lucrezia. 

"But  where  is  the  padrone?"  he  said.  "Oh,  I  know! 
He  locked  the  door  on  the  inside  and  then  put  the  key 
out  of  the  window.  But  why  is  the  bedroom  window 
shut?  He  always  sleeps  with  it  open!" 

Quickly  he  thrust  the  key  into  the  lock,  opened  the 
door,  and  entered  the  dark  sitting-room.  Holding  up 
a  warning  hand  to  keep  Lucrezia  quiet,  he  tiptoed  to 
the  bedroom  door,  opened  it  without  noise,  and  disap- 
peared, leaving  Lucrezia  outside.  After  a  minute  or 
two  he  came  back. 

"  It  is  all  right.     He  is  sleeping.     Go  to  bed." 

Lucrezia  turned  to  go. 

"And  never  mind  getting  up  early  to  make  the  pa- 
drone's coffee,"  Gaspare  added.  "  I  will  do  it.  I  am  not 
sleepy.  I  shall  take  the  gun  and  go  out  after  the  birds." 

Lucrezia  looked  surprised.  Gaspare  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  relieving  her  of  her  duties.  On  the  contrary, 
he  was  a  strict  taskmaster.  But  she  was  tired  and 
preoccupied.  So  she  made  no  remark  and  went  off  to 
her  room  behind  the  house,  walking  heavily  and  untying 
the  handkerchief  that  was  round  her  head. 

When  she  had  gone,  Gaspare  stood  by  the  table,  think- 
ing deeply.     He  had  lied  to  Lucrezia.     The  padrone  was 
not  asleep.     His  bed  had  not  been  slept  in.     Where  had 
he  gone  ?     Where  was  he  now  ? 
172 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

The  Sicilian  servant,  if  he  cares  for  his  padrone,  feels 
as  if  he  had  a  proprietor's  interest  in  him.  He  belongs 
to  his  padrone  and  his  padrone  belongs  to  him.  He 
will  allow  nobody  to  interfere  with  his  possession.  He 
is  intensely  jealous  of  any  one  who  seeks  to  disturb  the 
intimacy  between  his  padrone  and  himself,  or  to  enter 
into  his  padrone's  life  without  frankly  letting  him  know 
it  and  the  reason  for  it.  The  departure  of  Hermione  had 
given  an  additional  impetus  to  Gaspare's  always  lively 
sense  of  proprietorship  in  Maurice.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  left  in  charge  of  his  padrone,  and  had  an  almost 
sacred  responsibility  to  deliver  him  up  to  Hermione  hap- 
py and  safe  when  she  returned.  This  absence,  therefore, 
startled  and  perturbed  him — more — made  him  feel  guilty 
of  a  lapse  from  his  duty.  Perhaps  he  should  not  have 
gone  to  the  festa.  True,  he  had  asked  the  padrone  to 
accompany  him.  But  still — 

He  went  out  onto  the  terrace  and  looked  around  him. 
The  dawn  was  faint  and  pale.  Wreaths  of  mist,  like 
smoke  trails,  hung  below  him,  obscuring  the  sea.  The 
ghostly  cone  of  Etna  loomed  into  the  sky,  extricating 
itself  from  swaddling  bands  of  clouds  which  shrouded 
its  lower  flanks.  The  air  was  chilly  upon  this  height, 
and  the  aspect  of  things  was  gray  and  desolate,  with- 
out temptation,  without  enchantment,  to  lure  men  out 
from  their  dwellings. 

What  could  have  kept  the  padrone  from  his  sleep  till 
this  hour? 

Gaspare  shivered  a  little  as  he  stared  over  the  wall. 
He  was  thinking — thinking  furiously.  Although  scarce- 
ly educated  at  all,  he  was  exceedingly  sharp-witted, 
and  could  read  character  almost  as  swiftly  and  surely 
as  an  Arab.  At  this  moment  he  was  busily  recalling 
the  book  he  had  been  reading  for  many  weeks  in  Sicily, 
the  book  of  his  padrone's  character,  written  out  for  him 
in  words,  in  glances,  in  gestures,  in  likes  and  dislikes, 
most  clearly  in  actions.  Mentally  he  turned  the  leaves 
173 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

until  he  came  to  the  night  of  the  fishing,  to  the  waning 
of  the  night,  to  the  journey  to  the  caves,  to  the  dawn 
when  he  woke  upon  the  sand  and  found  that  the  pa- 
drone was  not  beside  him.  His  brown  hand  tightened 
on  the  stick  he  held,  his  brown  eyes  stared  with  the 
glittering  acuteness  of  a  great  bird's  at  the  cloud  trails 
hiding  the  sea  below  him — hiding  the  sea,  and  all  that 
lay  beside  the  sea. 

There  was  no  one  on  the  terrace.  But  there  was  a 
figure  for  a  moment  on  the  mountain-side,  leaping  down- 
ward. The  ravine  took  it  and  hid  it  in  a  dark  embrace. 
Gaspare  had  found  what  he  sought,  a  clew  to  guide  him. 
His  hesitation  was  gone.  In  his  uneducated  and  in- 
tuitive mind  there  was  no  longer  any  room  for  a  doubt. 
He  knew  that  his  padrone  was  where  he  had  been  in 
that  other  dawn,  when  he  slipped  away  from  the  cave 
where  his  companions  were  sleeping. 

Surefooted  as  a  goat,  and  incited  to  abnormal  activity 
by  a  driving  spirit  within  him  that  throbbed  with  close- 
ly mingled  curiosity,  jealousy,  and  anger,  Gaspare  made 
short  work  of  the  path  in  the  ravine.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  came  out  on  to  the  road  by  Isola  Bella.  On  the  shore 
was  a  group  of  fishermen,  all  of  them  friends  of  his,  get- 
ting ready  their  fishing-tackle,  and  hauling  down  the 
boats  to  the  gray  sea  for  the  morning's  work.  Some  of 
them  hailed  him,  but  he  took  no  notice,  only  pulled  his 
soft  hat  down  sideways  over  his  cheek,  and  hurried  on 
in  the  direction  of  Messina,  keeping  to  the  left  side  of 
the  road  and  away  from  the  shore,  till  he  gained  the 
summit  of  the  hill  from  which  the  Caffe  Berardi  and 
the  caves  were  visible.  There  he  stopped  for  a  moment 
and  looked  down.  He  saw  no  one  upon  the  shore,  but 
at  some  distance  upon  the  sea  there  was  a  black  dot,  a 
fishing -boat.  It  was  stationary.  Gaspare  knew  that 
its  occupant  must  be  hauling  in  his  net. 

"Salvatore  is  out  then!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as 
he  turned  aside  from  the  road  onto  the  promontory, 
174 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

which  was  connected  by  the  black  wall  of  rock  with 
the  land  where  stood  the  house  of  the  sirens.  This 
wall,  forbidding  though  it  was,  and  descending  sheer 
into  the  deep  sea  on  either  side,  had  no  terrors  for  him. 
He  dropped  down  to  it  with  a  sort  of  skilful  carelessness, 
then  squatted  on  a  stone,  and  quickly  unlaced  his 
mountain  boots,  pulled  his  stockings  off,  slung  them 
with  the  boots  round  his  neck,  and  stood  up  on  his  bare 
feet.  Then,  balancing  himself  with  his  out-stretched 
arms,  he  stepped  boldly  upon  the  wall.  It  was  very 
narrow.  The  sea  surged  through  it.  There  was  not 
space  on  it  to  walk  straight-footed,  even  with  only  one 
foot  at  a  time  upon  the  rock.  Gaspare  was  obliged  to 
plant  his  feet  sideways,  the  toes  and  heels  pointing  to 
the  sea  on  either  hand.  But  the  length  of  the  wall  was 
short,  and  he  went  across  it  almost  as  quickly  as  if  he 
had  been  walking  upon  the  road.  Heights  and  depths 
had  no  terrors  for  him  in  his  confident  youth.  And  he 
had  been  bred  up  among  the  rocks,  and  was  a  familiar 
friend  of  the  sea.  A  drop  into  it  would  have  only  meant 
a  morning  bath.  Having  gained  the  farther  side,  he 
put  on  his  stockings  and  boots,  grasped  his  stick,  and 
began  to  climb  upward  through  the  thickly  growing 
trees  towards  the  house  of  the  sirens.  His  instinct  had 
told  him  upon  the  terrace  that  the  padrone  was  there. 
Uneducated  people  have  often  marvellously  retentive 
memories  for  the  things  of  every-day  life.  Gaspare  re- 
membered the  padrone's  question  about  the  little  light 
beside  the  sea,  his  answer  to  it,  the  way  in  which  the 
padrone  had  looked  towards  the  trees  when,  in  the 
dawn,  they  stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  hill  and  he 
pointed  out  the  caves  where  they  were  going  to  sleep. 
He  remembered,  too,  from  what  direction  the  padrone 
came  towards  the  caffe  when  the  sun  was  up — and  he 
knew. 

As  he  drew  near  to  the  cottage  he  walked  carefully, 
though  still  swiftly,  but  when  he  reached  it  he  paused, 
175 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

bent  forward  his  head,  and  listened.  He  was  in  the 
tangle  of  coarse  grass  that  grew  right  up  to  the  north 
wall  of  the  cottage,  and  close  to  the  angle  which  hid 
from  him  the  sea-side  and  the  cottage  door.  At  first  he 
heard  nothing  except  the  faint  murmur  of  the  sea  upon 
the  rocks.  His  stillness  now  was  as  complete  as  had 
been  his  previous  activity,  and  in  the  one  he  was  as 
assured  as  in  the  other.  Some  five  minutes  passed. 
Again  and  again,  with  a  measured  monotony,  came  to 
him  the  regular  lisp  of  the  waves.  The  grass  rustled 
against  his  legs  as  the  little  wind  of  morning  pushed  its 
way  through  it  gently,  and  a  bird  chirped  above  his 
head  in  the  olive-trees  and  was  answered  by  another 
bird.  And  just  then,  as  if  in  reply  to  the  voices  of  the 
birds,  he  heard  the  sound  of  human  voices.  They  were 
distant  and  faint  almost  as  the  lisp  of  the  sea,  and  were 
surely  coming  towards  him  from  the  sea. 

When  Gaspare  realized  that  the  speakers  were  not  in 
the  cottage  he  crept  round  the  angle  of  the  wall,  slipped 
across  the  open  space  that  fronted  the  cottage  door, 
and,  gaining  the  trees,  stood  still  in  almost  exactly  the 
place  where  Maurice  had  stood  when  he  watched  Mad- 
dalena  in  the  dawn. 

The  voices  sounded  again  and  nearer.  There  was  a 
little  laugh  in  a  girl's  voice,  then  the  dry  twang  of  the 
plucked  strings  of  a  guitar,  then  silence.  After  a  minute 
the  guitar  strings  twanged  again,  and  a  girl's  voice  be- 
gan to  sing  a  peasant  song,  "Zampagnaro." 

At  the  end  of  the  verse  there  was  an  imitation  of  the 
ceramella  by  the  voice,  humming,  or  rather  whining, 
bouche  ferme'e.  As  it  ceased  a  man's  voice  said: 

"Ancora!     Ancora!" 

The  girl's  voice  began  the  imitation  again,  and  the 
man's  voice  joined  in  grotesquely,  exaggerating  the 
imitation  farcically  and  closing  it  with  a  boyish  shout. 

In  response,  standing  under  the  trees,  Gaspare 
shouted.  He  had  meant  to  keep  silence;  but  the  twang 
176 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

of  the  guitar,  with  its  suggestion  of  a  festa,  the  singing 
voices,  the  youthful  laughter,  and  the  final  exclamation 
ringing  out  in  the  dawn,  overcame  the  angry  and  sus- 
picious spirit  that  had  hitherto  dominated  him.  The 
boy's  imp  of  fun  was  up  and  dancing  within  him.  He 
could  not  drive  it  out  or  lay  it  to  rest. 

' '  Hi — y  i — yi — y  i — yi ! ' ' 

His  voice  died  away,  and  was  answered  by  a  silence 
that  seemed  like  a  startled  thing  holding  its  breath. 

' '  Hi — yi — yi — yi — yi ! ' ' 

He  called  again,  lustily,  leaped  out  from  the  trees,  and 
went  running  across  the  open  space  to  the  edge  of  the 
plateau  by  the  sea.  A  tiny  path  wound  steeply  down 
from  here  to  the  rocks  below,  and  on  it,  just  under  the 
concealing  crest  of  the  land,  stood  the  padrone  with 
Maddalena.  Their  hands  were  linked  together,  as  if 
they  had  caught  at  each  other  sharply  for  sympathy 
or  help.  Their  faces  were  tense  and  their  lips  parted. 
But  as  they  saw  Gaspare's  light  figure  leaping  over  the 
hill  edge,  his  dancing  eyes  fixed  shrewdly,  with  a  sort 
of  boyish  scolding,  upon  them,  their  hands  fell  apart, 
their  faces  relaxed. 

"  Gasparino!"  said  Maurice.    "  It  was  you  who  called!" 

"Si,  signore." 

He  came  up  to  them.  Maddalena's  oval  face  had 
flushed,  and  she  dropped  the  full  lids  over  her  black 
eyes  as  she  said: 

"Buon  giorno,  Gaspare." 

"Buon  giorno,  Donna  Maddalena." 

Then  they  stood  there  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Mau- 
rice was  the  first  to  speak  again. 

"But  why  did  you  come  here?"  he  said.  "How  did 
you  know?" 

Already  the  sparkle  of  merriment  had  dropped  out 
of  Gaspare's  face  as  the  feeling  of  jealousy,  of  not  having 
been  completely  trusted,  returned  to  his  mind. 

"Did  not  the  signore  wish  me  to  know?"  he  said, 
177 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

almost  gruffly,  with  a  sort  of  sullen  violence.  "I  am 
sorry." 

Maurice  touched  the  back  of  his  hand,  giving  it  a 
gentle,  half-humorous  slap. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Gaspare.  But  how  could  you 
guess  where  I  had  gone?" 

"Where  did  you  go  before,  signore,  when  you  could 
not  sleep?" 

At  this  thrust  Maurice  imitated  Maddalena  and  red- 
dened slightly.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  liv- 
ing under  glass  while  he  had  fancied  himself  enclosed  in 
rock  that  was  impenetrable  by  human  eyes.  He  tried 
to  laugh  away  his  slight  confusion. 

"Gaspare,  you  are  the  most  birbante  boy  in  Sicily!" 
he  said.  "You  are  like  a  Mago  Africano." 

"Signorino,  you  should  trust  me,"  returned  the  boy, 
sullenly. 

His  own  words  seemed  to  move  him,  as  if  their  sound 
revealed  to  him  the  whole  of  the  injury  that  had  been 
inflicted  upon  his  amour  propre,  and  suddenly  angry 
tears  started  into  his  eyes. 

"I  thought  I  was  a  servant  of  confidence"  (un  ser- 
vitore  di  confidenza),  he  added,  bitterly. 

Maurice  was  amazed  at  the  depth  of  feeling  thus  ab- 
ruptly shown  to  him.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
permitted  to  look  for  a  moment  deep  down  into  that 
strange  volcano,  a  young  and  passionate  Sicilian  heart. 
As  he  looked,  swift  and  short  as  was  his  glance,  his 
amazement  died  away.  Narcissus  saw  himself  in  the 
stream.  Maurice  saw,  or  believed  he  saw,  his  heart's 
image,  trembling  perhaps  and  indistinct,  far  down  in 
the  passion  of  Gaspare.  So  could  he  have  been  with 
a  padrone  had  fate  made  his  situation  in  life  a  different 
one.  So  could  he  have  felt  had  something  been  con- 
cealed from  him. 

Maurice  said  nothing  in  reply.  Maddalena  was  there. 
They  walked  in  silence  to  the  cottage  door,  and  there, 
178 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

rather  like  a  detected  school -boy,  he  bade  her  good- 
bye, and  set  out  through  the  trees  with  Gaspare. 

"That's  not  the  way,  is  it?"  Maurice  said,  presently, 
as  the  boy  turned  to  the  left. 

"How  did  you  come,  signore?" 

"I!" 

He  hesitated.  Then  he  saw  the  uselessness  of  striv- 
ing to  keep  up  a  master's  pose  with  this  servant  of  the 
sea  and  of  the  hills. 

"I  came  by  water,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  swam,  Gas- 
parino." 

The  boy  answered  the  smile,  and  suddenly  the  tension 
between  them  was  broken,  and  they  were  at  their  ease 
again. 

"  I  will  show  you  another  way,  signore,  if  you  are  not 
afraid." 

Maurice  laughed  out  gayly. 

"The  way  of  the  rocks?"  he  said. 

"Si,  signore.  But  you  must  go  barefooted  and  be 
as  nimble  as  a  goat." 

"Do  you  doubt  me,  Gasparino?" 

He  looked  at  the  boy  hard,  with  a  deliberately  quiz- 
zing kindness,  that  was  gay  but  asked  forgiveness,  too, 
and  surely  promised  amendment. 

"I  have  never  doubted  my  padrone." 

They  said  nothing  more  till  they  were  at  the  wall  of 
rock.  Then  Gaspare  seemed  struck  by  hesitation. 

"Perhaps — "  he  began.  "You  are  not  accustomed 
to  the  rocks,  signore,  and — " 

"Silenzio!"  cried  Maurice,  bending  down  and  pulling 
off  his  boots  and  stockings. 

"Do  like  this,  signore!" 

Gaspare  slung  his  boots  and  stockings  rouna  his  neck. 
Maurice  imitated  him. 

"And  now  give  me  your  hand — so — without  pulling." 

"But  you  hadn't — " 

"Give  me  your  hind,  signore!" 
179 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

It  was  an  order.  Maurice  obeyed  it,  feeling  that  in 
these  matters  Gaspare  had  the  right  to  command. 

"Walk  as  I  do,  signore,  and  keep  step  with  me." 

"Bene!" 

"And  look  before  you.     Don't  look  down  at  the  sea." 

"Va  bene." 

A  moment,  and  they  were  across.  Maurice  blew  out 
his  breath. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  in  English. 

He  sat  down  on  the  grass,  put  his  hand  on  his  knees, 
and  looked  back  at  the  rock  and  at  the  precipices. 

"I'm  glad  I  can  do  that!"  he  said. 

Something  within  him  was  revelling,  was  dancing  a 
tarantella  as  the  sun  came  up,  lifting  its  blood-red  rim 
above  the  sea-line  in  the  east.  He  looked  over  the  trees. 

"Maddalena  saw  us!"  he  cried. 

He  had  caught  sight  of  her  among  the  olive-trees 
watching  them,  with  her  two  hands  held  flat  against  her 
breast. 

"Addio,  Maddalena!" 

The  girl  started,  waved  her  hand,  drew  back,  and 
disappeared. 

"I'm  glad  she  saw  us." 

Gaspare  laughed,  but  said  nothing.  They  put  on 
their  boots  and  stockings,  and  started  briskly  off  tow- 
ards Monte  Amato.  When  they  had  crossed  the  road, 
and  gained  the  winding  path  that  led  eventually  into 
the  ravine,  Maurice  said: 

"Well,  Gaspare?" 

"Well,  signorino?" 

"Have  you  forgiven  me?" 

"It  is  not  for  a  servant  to  forgive  his  padrone,  sig- 
norino," said  the  boy,  but  rather  proudly. 

Maurice  feared  that  his  sense  of  injury  was  returning, 
and  continued,  hastily: 

"It  was  like  this,  Gaspare.  When  you  and  Lucrezia 
had  gone  I  felt  so  dull  all  alone,  and  I  thought,  'ev- 
180 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

ery  one  is   singing  and   dancing   and   laughing  except 
me.'" 

"But  I  asked  you  to  accompany  us,  signorino," 
Gaspare  exclaimed,  reproachfully. 

"Yes,  I  know,  but — " 

"  But  you  thought  we  did  not  want  you.  Well,  then, 
you  do  not  know  us!" 

"Now,  Gaspare,  don't  be  angry  again.  Remember 
that  the  padrona  has  gone  away  and  that  I  depend  on 
you  for  everything." 

At  the  last  words  Gaspare's  face,  which  had  been 
lowering,  brightened  up  a  little.  But  he  was  not  yet 
entirely  appeased. 

"You  have  Maddalena,"  he  said. 

"She  is  only  a  girl." 

"Oh,  girls  are  very  nice." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Gaspare.  I  hardly  know  Mad- 
dalena." 

Gaspare  laughed ;  not  rudely,  but  as  a  boy  laughs  who 
is  sure  he  knows  the  world  from  the  outer  shell  to  inner 
kernel. 

"  Oh,  signore,  why  did  you  go  down  to  the  sea  instead 
of  coming  to  the  festa?" 

Maurice  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  asking  him- 
self Gaspare's  question.  Why  had  he  gone  to  the  Sirens' 
Isle  ?  Gaspare  continued : 

"  May  I  say  what  I  think,  signore  ?  You  know  I  am 
Sicilian,  and  I  know  the  Sicilians." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Strangers  should  be  careful  what  they  do  in  my 
country." 

"Madonna!     You  call  me  a  stranger?" 

It  was  Maurice's  turn  to  be  angry.  He  spoke  with  sud- 
den heat.  The  idea  that  he  was  a  stranger — a  straniero 
— in  Sicily  seemed  to  him  ridiculous — almost  offensive. 

"Well,  signore,  you  have  only  been  here  a  little  while. 
I  was  born  here  and  have  never  been  anywhere  else." 
181 


THE   CALL   OF   THE  BLOOD 

"  It  is  true.     Go  on  then." 

"The  men  of  Sicily  are  not  like  the  English  or  the 
Germans.  They  are  jealous  of  their  women.  I  have 
been  told  that  in  your  country,  on  festa  days,  if  a  man 
likes  a  girl  and  she  likes  him  he  can  take  her  for  a  walk. 
Is  it  true?" 

"Quite  true." 

"He  cannot  walk  with  her  here.  He  cannot  even 
walk  with  her  down  the  street  of  Marechiaro  alone.  It 
would  be  a  shame." 

"But  there  is  no  harm  in  it." 

"Who  knows?  It  is  not  our  custom.  We  walk  with 
our  friends  and  the  girls  walk  with  their  friends.  If 
Salvatore,  the  father  of  Maddalena,  knew — " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but,  with  sudden  and 
startling  violence,  made  the  gesture  of  drawing  out  a 
knife  and  thrusting  it  upward  into  the  body  of  an  ad- 
versary. Maurice  stopped  on  the  path.  He  felt  as  if 
he  had  seen  a  murder. 

"Ecco!"  said  Gaspare,  calmly,  dropping  his  hand,  and 
staring  into  Maurice's  face  with  his  enormous  eyes,  which 
never  fell  before  the  gaze  of  another. 

"But— but— I  mean  no  harm  to  Maddalena." 

"It  does  not  matter." 

"  But  she  did  not  tell  me.  She  is  ready  to  talk  with 
me." 

"  She  is  a  silly  girl.  She  is  flattered  to  see  a  stranger. 
She  does  not  think.  Girls  never  think." 

He  spoke  with  utter  contempt: 

"Have  you  seen  Salvatore,  signore?" 

"No — yes." 

"You  have  seen  him?" 

"Not  to  speak  to.  "When  I  came  down  the  cottage 
was  shut  up.  I  waited — " 

"You  hid,  signore?" 

Maurice's  face  flushed.  An  angry  word  rose  to  his  lips, 
but  he  checked  it  and  laughed,  remembering  that  he 
182 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

had  to  deal  with  a  boy,  and  that  Gaspare  was  devoted 
to  him. 

"Well,  I  waited  among  the  trees — birbante!" 

"And  you  saw  Salvatore?" 

"He  came  out  and  went  down  to  the  fishing." 

"  Salvatore  is  a  terrible  man.  He  used  to  beat  his  wife 
Teresa." 

"  P'f !     Would  you  have  me  be  afraid  of  him  ?" 

Maurice's  blood  was  up.  Even  his  sense  of  romance 
was  excited.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  the  coils  of  an  ad- 
venture, and  his  heart  leaped,  but  not  with  fear. 

"Fear  is  not  for  men.  But  the  padrona  has  left  you 
with  me  because  she  trusts  me  and  because  I  know 
Sicily." 

It  seemed  to  Maurice  that  he  was  with  an  inflexible 
chaperon,  against  whose  dominion  it  would  be  difficult, 
if  not  useless,  to  struggle.  They  were  walking  on  again, 
and  had  come  into  the  ravine.  Water  was  slipping 
down  among  the  rocks,  between  the  twisted  trunks  of 
the  olive-trees.  Its  soft  sound,  and  the  cool  dimness  in 
this  secret  place,  made  Maurice  suddenly  realize  that  he 
had  passed  the  night  without  sleep,  and  that  he  would 
be  glad  to  rest.  It  was  not  the  moment  for  combat, 
and  it  was  not  unpleasant,  after  all — so  he  phrased  it  in 
his  mind — to  be  looked  after,  thought  for,  educated  in 
the  etiquette  of  the  Enchanted  Isle  by  a  son  of  its  soil, 
with  its  wild  passions  and  its  firm  repressions  linked 
together  in  his  heart. 

"Gasparino,"  he  said,  meekly.  "I  want  you  to  look 
after  me.  But  don't  be  unkind  to  me.  I'm  older  than 
you,  I  know,  but  I  feel  awfully  young  here,  and  I  do 
want  to  have  a  little  fun  without  doing  any  harm  to 
anybody,  or  getting  any  harm  myself.  One  thing  I 
promise  you,  that  I'll  always  trust  you  and  tell  you 
what  I'm  up  to.  There!  Have  you  quite  forgiven  me 
now?" 

Gaspare's  face  became  radiant.     He  felt  that  he  had 

183 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

done  his  duty,  and  that  he  was  now  properly  respected 
by  one  whom  he  looked  up  to  and  of  whom  he  was  not 
merely  the  servant,  but  also  the  lawful  guardian. 

They  went  up  to  the  cottage  singing  in  the  morning 
sunshine. 


XI 

"SIGNORINO!     Signorino!" 

Maurice  lifted  his  head  lazily  from  the  hands  that 
served  it  as  a  pillow,  and  called  out,  sleepily: 

"Che  cosa  c'6?" 

"Where  are  you,  signorino?" 

"Down  here  under  the  oak-trees." 

He  sank  back  again,  and  looked  up  at  the  section  of 
deep -blue  sky  that  was  visible  through  the  leaves. 
How  he  loved  the  blue,  and  gloried  in  the  first  strong 
heat  that  girdled  Sicily  to-day,  and  whispered  to  his 
happy  body  that  summer  was  near,  the  true  and  fearless 
summer  that  comes  to  southern  lands.  Through  all  his 
veins  there  crept  a  subtle  sense  of  well-being,  as  if  every 
drop  of  his  blood  were  drowsily  rejoicing.  Three  days 
had  passed,  had  glided  by,  three  radiant  nights,  warm, 
still,  luxurious.  And  with  each  his  sense  of  the  south 
had  increased,  and  with  each  his  consciousness  of  being 
nearer  to  the  breast  of  Sicily.  In  those  days  and  nights 
he  had  not  looked  into  a  book  or  glanced  at  a  paper. 
What  had  he  done  ?  He  scarcely  knew.  He  had  lived 
and  felt  about  him  the  fingers  of  the  sun  touching  him 
like  a  lover.  And  he  had  chattered  idly  to  Gaspare  about 
Sicilian  things,  always  Sicilian  things;  about  the  fairs 
and  the  festivals,  Capo  d'Anno  and  Carnevale,  martedl 
grasso  with  its  Tavulata,  the  solemn  family  banquet  at 
which  all  the  relations  assemble  and  eat  in  company, 
the  feasts  of  the  different  saints,  the  peasant  marriages 
and  baptisms,  the  superstitions — Gaspare  did  not  call 
them  so — that  are  alive  in  Sicily,  and  that  will  surely 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

live  till  Sicily  is  no  more ;  the  fear  of  the  evil-eye  and  of 
spells,  and  the  best  means  of  warding  them  off,  the 
"guaj  di  lu  linu,"  the  interpretation  of  dreams,  the 
power  of  the  Mafia,  the  legends  of  the  brigands,  and  the 
vanished  glory  of  Musolino.  Gaspare  talked  without  re- 
serve to  his  padrone,  as  to  another  Sicilian,  and  Maurice 
was  never  weary  of  listening.  All  that  was  of  Sicily 
caught  his  mind  and  heart,  was  full  of  meaning  to  him, 
and  of  irresistible  fascination.  He  had  heard  the  call 
of  the  blood  once  for  all  and  had  once  for  all  responded 
to  it. 

But  the  nights  he  had  loved  best.  For  then  he  slept 
under  the  stars.  When  ten  o'clock  struck  he  and  Gas- 
pare carried  out  one  of  the  white  beds  onto  the  terrace, 
and  he  slipped  into  it  and  lay  looking  up  at  the  clear 
sky,  and  at  the  dimness  of  the  mountain  flank,  and  at 
the  still  silhouettes  of  the  trees,  till  sleep  took  him, 
while  Gaspare,  rolled  up  in  a  rug  of  many  colors,  snug- 
gled up  on  the  seat  by  the  wall  with  his  head  on  a  cush- 
ion brought  for  him  by  the  respectful  Lucrezia.  And 
they  awoke  at  dawn  to  see  the  last  star  fade  above  the 
cone  of  Etna,  and  the  first  spears  of  the  sun  thrust  up 
out  of  the  stillness  of  the  sea. 

"Signorino,  ecco  la  postal" 

And  Gaspare  came  running  down  from  the  terrace, 
the  wide  brim  of  his  white  linen  hat  flapping  round  his 
sun-browned  face. 

"I  don't  want  it,  Gaspare.     I  don't  want  anything." 

"But  I  think  there's  a  letter  from  the  signora!" 

"From  Africa?" 

Maurice  sat  up  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Yes,  it  is  from  Kairouan.  Sit  down,  Gaspare,  and 
I'll  tell  you  what  the  padrona  says." 

Gaspare  squatted  on  his  haunches  like  an  Oriental, 

not  touching  the  ground  with  his  body,  and  looked 

eagerly  at  the  letter  that  had  come  across  the  sea.     He 

adored  his  padrona,  and  was  longing  for  news  of  her. 

186 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Already  he  had  begun  to  send  her  picture  post-cards, 
laboriously  written  over.  "Tanti  saluti  carissima  Sig- 
nora  Pertruni,  a  rividici,  e  suno  il  suo  servo  fidelisimo  per 
sempre — Martucci  Gaspare.  Adio!  Adio!  Ciao!  Ciao!" 
What  would  she  say?  And  what  message  would  she 
send  to  him?  His  eyes  sparkled  with  affectionate  ex- 
pectation. 

"HOTEL  DE  FRANCE,  KAIROUAN. 

"Mv  DEAREST, — I  cannot  write  very  much,  for  all  my  mo- 
ments ought  to  be  given  up  to  nursing  Emile.  Thank  God,  I 
arrived  in  time.  Oh,  Maurice,  when  I  saw  him  I  can't  tell  you  how 
thankful  I  was  that  I  had  not  hesitated  to  make  the  journey, 
that  I  had  acted  at  once  on  my  first  impulse  to  come  here.  And 
how  I  blessed  God  for  having  given  me  an  unselfish  husband 
who  trusted  me  completely,  and  who  could  understand  what 
true  friendship  between  man  and  woman  means,  and  what  one 
owes  to  a  friend.  You  might  so  easily  have  misunderstood, 
and  you  are  so  blessedly  understanding.  Thank  you,  dearest, 
for  seeing  that  it  was  right  of  me  to  go,  and  for  thinking  of 
nothing  but  that.  I  feel  so  proud  of  you,  and  so  proud  to  be 
your  wife.  Well,  I  caught  the  train  at  Tunis  mercifully,  and 
got  here  at  evening.  He  is  frightfully  ill.  I  hardly  recognized 
him.  But  his  mind  is  quite  clear,  though  he  suffers  terribly. " 
He  was  poisoned  by  eating  some  tinned  food,  and  peritonitis 
has  set  in.  We  can't  tell  yet  whether  he  will  live  or  die.  When 
he  saw  me  come  in  he  gave  me  such  a  look  of  gratitude,  although 
he  was  writhing  with  pain,  that  I  couldn't  help  crying.  It 
made  me  feel  so  ashamed  of  having  had  any  hesitation  in  my 
heart  about  coming  away  from  our  home  and  our  happiness. 
And  it  was  difficult  to  give  it  all  up,  to  come  out  of  paradise. 
That  last  night  I  felt  as  if  I  simply  couldn't  leave  you,  my 
darling.  But  I'm  glad  and  thankful  I've  done  it.  I  have  to 
do  everything  for  him.  The  doctor's  rather  an  ass,  very  French 
and  excitable,  but  he  does  his  best.  But  I  have  to  see  to 
everything,  and  be  always  there  to  put  on  the  poultices  and  the 
ice,  and — poor  fellow,  he  does  suffer  so,  but  he's  awfully  brave 
and  determined  to  live.  He  says  he  will  live  if  it's  only  to 
prove  that  I  came  in  time  to  save  him.  And  yet,  when  I  look 
at  him,  I  feel  as  if— but  I  won't  give  up  hope.  The  heat  here 
is  terrible,  and  tries  him  very  much  now  he  is  so  desperately  ill, 
and  the  flies — but  I  don't  want  to  bother  you  with  my  troubles. 
They're  not  very  great — only  one.  Do  you  guess  what  that  is  ? 
I  scarcely  dare  to  think  of  Sicily.  Whenever  I  do  I  feel  such 
»*'  187 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

a  horrible  ache  in  my  heart.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  not  seen 
your  face  or  touched  your  hand  for  centuries,  and  sometimes 
— and  that's  the  worst  of  all — as  if  I  never  should  again,  as  if 
our  time  together  and  our  love  were  a  beautiful  dream,  and 
God  would  never  allow  me  to  dream  it  again.  That's  a  little 
morbid,  I  know,  but  I  think  it's  always  like  that  with  a  great 
happiness,  a  happiness  that  is  quite  complete.  It  seems  almost 
a  miracle  to  have  had  it  even  for  a  moment,  and  one  can  scarce- 
ly believe  that  one  will  be  allowed  to  have  it  again.  But, 
please  God,  we  will.  We'll  sit  on  the  terrace  again  together,  and 
see  the  stars  come  out,  and —  The  doctor's  come  and  I  must 
stop.  I'll  write  again  almost  directly.  Good-night,  my  dear- 
est. Buon  riposo.  Do  you  remember  when  you  first  heard 
that?  Somehow,  since  then  I  always  connect  the  words  with 
you.  I  won't  send  my  love,  because  it's  all  in  Sicily  with  you. 
I'll  send  it  instead  to  Gaspare.  Tell  him  I  feel  happy  that  he 
is  with  the  padrone,  because  I  know  how  faithful  and  devoted 
he  is.  Tanti  saluti  a  Lucrezia.  Oh,  Maurice,  pray  that  I  may 
soon  be  back.  You  do  want  me,  don't  you  ? 

"  HERMIONE." 

Maurice  looked  up  from  the  letter  and  met  Gaspare's 
questioning  eyes. 

"There's  something  for  you,"  he  said. 

And  he  read  in  Italian  Hermione's  message.  Gas- 
pare beamed  with  pride  and  pleasure. 

"And  the  sick  signore?"  he  asked.     "Is  he  better?" 

Maurice  explained  how  things  were. 

"The  signora  is  longing  to  come  back  to  us,"  he  said. 

"Of  course  she  is,"  said  Gaspare,  calmly. 

Then  suddenly  he  jumped  up. 

"Signorino,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to  write  a  letter 
to  the  signora.  She  will  like  to  have  a  letter  from  me. 
She  will  think  she  is  in  Sicily." 

"And  when  you  have  finished,  I  will  write,"  said 
Maurice. 

"Si,  signore." 

And  Gaspare  ran  off  up  the  hill  towards  the  cottage, 
leaving  his  master  alone. 

Maurice  began  to  read  the  letter  again,  slowly.  It  made 
him  feel  almost  as  if  he  were  with  Hermione.  He  seem- 
188 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

ed  to  see  her  as  he  read,  and  he  smiled.  How  good  she 
was  and  true,  and  how  enthusiastic!  When  he  had 
finished  the  second  reading  of  the  letter  he  laid  it  down, 
and  put  his  hands  behind  his  head  again,  and  looked 
up  at  the  quivering  blue.  Then  he  thought  of  Artois. 
He  remembered  his  tall  figure,  his  robust  limbs,  his 
handsome,  powerful  face.  It  was  strange  to  think  that 
he  was  desperately  ill,  perhaps  dying.  Death— what 
must  that  be  like?  How  deep  the  blue  looked,  as  if 
there  were  thousands  of  miles  of  it,  as  if  it  stretched 
on  and  on  forever!  Artois,  perhaps,  was  dying,  but  he 
felt  as  if  he  could  never  die,  never  even  be  ill.  He 
stretched  his  body  on  the  warm  ground.  The  blue 
seemed  to  deny  the  fact  of  death.  He  tried  to  imagine 
Artois  in  bed  in  the  heat  of  Africa,  with  the  flies  buz- 
zing round  him.  Then  he  looked  again  at  the  letter, 
and  reread  that  part  in  which  Hermione  wrote  of  her 
duties  as  sick-nurse. 

"  I  have  to  see  to  everything,  and  be  always  there  to 
put  on  the  poultices  and  the  ice." 

He  read  those  words  again  and  again,  and  once  more 
he  was  conscious  of  a  stirring  of  anger,  of  revolt,  such 
as  he  had  felt  on  the  night  after  Hermione's  departure 
when  he  was  alone  on  the  terrace.  She  was  his  wife, 
his  woman.  What  right  had  she  to  be  tending  another 
man?  His  imagination  began  to  work  quickly  now, 
and  he  frowned  as  he  looked  up  at  the  blue.  He  forgot 
all  the  rest  of  Hermione's  letter,  all  her  love  of  him 
and  her  longing  to  be  back  in  Sicily  with  him,  and 
thought  only  of  her  friendship  for  Artois,  of  her  minis- 
trations to  Artois.  And  something  within  him  sickened 
at  the  thought  of  the  intimacy  between  patient  and 
nurse,  raged  against  it,  till  he  felt  revengeful.  The  wild 
unreasonableness  of  his  feeling  did  not  occur  to  him 
now.  He  hated  that  his  wife  should  be  performing  these 
offices  for  Artois;  he  hated  that  she  had  chosen  to  go 
to  him,  that  she  had  considered  it  to  be  her  duty  to  go. 
189 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Had  it  been  only  a  sense  of  duty  that  had  called  her 
to  Africa? 

When  he  asked  himself  this  question  he  could  not 
hesitate  what  answer  to  give.  Even  this  new  jealousy, 
this  jealousy  of  the  Sicilian  within  him,  could  not  trick 
him  into  the  belief  that  Hermione  had  wanted  to  leave 
him. 

Yet  his  feeling  of  bitterness,  of  being  wronged,  per- 
sisted and  grew. 

When,  after  a  very  long  time,  Gaspare  came  to  show 
him  a  letter  written  in  large,  round  hand,  he  was  still 
hot  with  the  sense  of  injury.  And  a  new  question  was 
beginning  to  torment  him.  What  must  Artois  think? 

"Aren't  you  going  to  write,  signorino?"  asked  Gas- 
pare, when  Maurice  had  read  his  letter  and  approved  it. 

"I?"  he  said. 

He  saw  an  expression  of  surprise  on  Gaspare's  face. 

"Yes,  of  course.  I'll  write  now.  Help  me  up.  I 
feel  so  lazy!" 

Gaspare  seized  his  hands  and  pulled,  laughing.  Mau- 
rice stood  up  and  stretched. 

"You  are  more  lazy  than  I,  signore,"  said  Gaspare. 
"Shall  I  write  for  you,  too?" 

"No,  no." 

He  spoke  abstractedly. 

"Don't  you  know  what  to  say?" 

Maurice  looked  at  him  swiftly.  The  boy  had  divined 
the  truth.  In  his  present  mood  it  would  be  difficult  for 
him  to  write  to  Hermione.  Still,  he  must  do  it.  He 
went  up  to  the  cottage  and  sat  down  at  the  writing- 
table  with  Hermione's  letter  beside  him. 

He  read  it  again  carefully,  then  began  to  write.  Now 
he  was  faintly  aware  of  the  unreason  of  his  previous 
mood  and  quite  resolved  not  to  express  it,  but  while 
he  was  writing  of  his  every-day  life  in  Sicily  a  vision  of 
the  sick-room  in  Africa  came  before  him  again.  He 
saw  his  wife  shut  in  with  Artois,  tending  him.  It  was 
190 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

night,  warm  and  dark.  The  sick  man  was  hot  with 
fever,  and  Hermione  bent  over  him  and  laid  her  cool 
hand  on  his  forehead. 

Abruptly  Maurice  finished  his  letter  and  thrust  it  into 
an  envelope. 

"Here,  Gaspare!"  he  said.  "Take  the  donkey  and 
ride  down  with  these  to  the  post." 

"How  quick  you  have  been,  signore!  I  believe  my 
letter  to  the  signora  is  longer  than  yours." 

"Perhaps  it  is.     I  don't  know.     Off  with  you!" 

When  Gaspare  was  gone,  Maurice  felt  restless,  almost 
as  he  had  felt  on  the  night  when  he  had  been  left  alone 
on  the  terrace.  Then  he  had  been  companioned  by  a 
sensation  of  desertion,  and  had  longed  to  break  out  into 
some  new  life,  to  take  an  ally  against  the  secret  enemy 
who  was  attacking  him.  He  had  wanted  to  have  his 
Emile  Artois  as  Hermione  had  hers.  That  was  the 
truth  of  the  matter.  And  his  want  had  led  him  down 
to  the  sea.  And  now  again  he  looked  towards  the  sea, 
and  again  there  was  a  call  from  it  that  summoned  him. 

He  had  not  seen  Maddalena  since  Gaspare  came  to 
seek  him  in  the  Sirens'  Isle.  He  had  scarcely  wanted 
to  see  her.  The  days  had  glided  by  in  the  company  of 
Gaspare,  and  no  moment  of  them  had  been  heavy  or 
had  lagged  upon  its  way. 

But  now  he  heard  again  the  call  from  the  sea. 

Hermione  was  with  her  friend.  Why  should  not  he 
have  his?  But  he  did  not  go  down  the  path  to  the 
ravine,  for  he  thought  of  Gaspare.  He  had  tricked  him 
once,  while  he  slept  in  the  cave,  and  once  Gaspare  had 
tracked  him  to  the  sirens'  house.  They  had  spoken  of 
the  matter  of  Maddalena.  He  knew  Gaspare.  If  he 
went  off  now  to  see  Maddalena  the  boy  would  think 
that  the  sending  him  to  the  post  was  a  pretext,  that  he 
had  been  deliberately  got  out  of  the  way.  Such  a  crime 
could  never  be  forgiven.  Maurice  knew  enough  about 
the  Sicilian  character  to  be  fully  aware  of  that.  And 
191 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

what  had  he  to  hide?     Nothing.     He  must  wait  for 
Gaspare,  and  then  he  could  set  out  for  the  sea. 

It  seemed  to  him  a  long  time  before  he  saw  Tito,  the 
donkey,  tripping  among  the  stones,  and  heard  Gaspare's 
voice  hailing  him  from  below.  He  was  impatient  to 
be  off,  and  he  shouted  out: 

"Presto,  Gaspare,  presto!" 

He  saw  the  boy's  arm  swing  as  he  tapped  Tito  behind 
with  his  switch,  and  the  donkey's  legs  moving  in  a  canter. 

"What  is  it,  signorino?     Has  anything  happened?" 

"No.     But — Gaspare,  I'm  going  down  to  the  sea." 

"To  bathe?" 

"I  may  bathe.  I'm  not  sure.  It  depends  upon  how 
I  go." 

"You  are  going  to  the  Casa  delle  Sirene?" 

Maurice  nodded. 

"I  didn't  care  to  go  off  while  you  were  away." 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  come  with  you,  signorino?" 

The  boy's  great  eyes  were  searching  him,  yet  he  did 
not  feel  uncomfortable,  although  he  wished  to  stand  well 
with  Gaspare.  They  were  near  akin,  although  different 
in  rank  and  education.  Between  their  minds  there  was 
a  freemasonry  of  the  south. 

"Do  you  want  to  come?"  he  said. 

"It's  as  you  like,  signore." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  added: 

"Salvatore  might  be  there  now.  Do  you  want  him 
to  see  you?" 

"Why  not?" 

A  project  began  to  form  in  his  mind.  If  he  took  Gas- 
pare with  him  they  might  go  to  the  cottage  more  nat- 
urally. Gaspare  knew  Salvatore  and  could  introduce 
him,  could  say — well,  that  he  wanted  sometimes  to  go 
out  fishing  and  would  take  Salvatore's  boat.  Salvatore 
would  see  a  prospect  of  money.  And  he — Maurice — 
did  want  to  go  out  fishing.  Suddenly  he  knew  it.  His 
spirits  rose  and  he  clapped  Gaspare  on  the  back. 
192 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  want  to  know  Salvatore.  Come 
along.  We'll  take  his  boat  one  day  and  go  out  fish- 
ing." 

Gaspare's  grave  face  relaxed  in  a  sly  smile. 

"Signorino!"  he  said,  shaking  his  hand  to  and  fro 
close  to  his  nose.  "Birbante!" 

There  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  his  voice.  Maurice 
laughed  Joyously.  He  began  to  feel  like  an  ingenious 
school-boy  who  was  going  to  have  a  lark.  There  was 
neither  thought  of  evil  nor  even  a  secret  stirring  of 
desire  for  it  in  him. 

"A  rivederci,  Lucrezia!"  he  cried. 

And  they  set  off. 

When  they  were  not  far  from  the  sea,  Gaspare  said: 

"Signorino,  why  do  you  like  to  come  here?  What 
is  the  good  of  it?" 

They  had  been  walking  in  silence.  Evidently  these 
questions  were  the  result  of  a  process  of  thought  which 
had  been  going  on  in  the  boy's  mind. 

"The  good!"  said  Maurice.     "What  is  the  harm?" 

"Well,  here  in  Sicily,  when  a  man  goes  to  see  a  girl 
it  is  because  he  wants  to  love  her." 

"In  England  it  is  different,  Gaspare.  In  England 
men  and  women  can  be  friends.  Why  not?" 

"You  want  just  to  be  a  friend  of  Maddalena?" 

"Of  course.  I  like  to  talk  to  the  people.  I  want  to 
understand  them.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  friends  with 
Maddalena  as — as  I  am  with  Lucrezia?" 

"Oh,  Lucrezia  is  your  servant." 

"It's  all  the  same." 

"But  perhaps  Maddalena  doesn't  know.  We  are 
Sicilians  here,  signore." 

"What  do  you  mean?  That  Maddalena  might — 
nonsense,  Gaspare!" 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  sudden  pleasure,  even  sud- 
den triumph,  in  his  voice. 

"Are  you  sure  you  understand  our  girls,  signore?" 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

"If  Maddalena  does  like  me  there's  no  harm  in  it. 
She  knows  who  I  am  now.  She  knows  I — she  knows 
there  is  the  signora." 

"Si,  signore.  There  is  the  signora.  She  is  in  Africa, 
but  she  is  coming  back." 

"Of  course!" 

"When  the  sick  signore  gets  well?" 

Maurice  said  nothing.  He  felt  sure  Gaspare  was 
wondering  again,  wondering  that  Hermione  was  in 
Africa. 

"I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  in  England,"  con- 
tinued the  boy.  "Here  it  is  all  quite  different." 

Again  jealousy  stirred  in  Muarice,  and  a  sensation  al- 
most of  shame.  For  a  moment  he  felt  like  a  Sicilian 
husband  at  whom  his  neighbors  point  the  two  fingers 
of  scorn,  and  he  said  something  in  his  wrath  which 
was  unworthy. 

"You  see  how  it  is,"  he  said.  "If  the  signora  can  go 
to  Africa  to  see  her  friend,  I  can  come  down  here  to  see 
mine.  That  is  how  it  is  with  the  English." 

He  did  not  even  try  to  keep  the  jealousy  out  of  his 
voice,  his  manner.  Gaspare  leaped  to  it. 

"You  did  not  like  the  signora  to  go  to  Africa!" 

"Oh,  she  will  come  back.  It's  all  right,"  Maurice 
answered,  hastily.  "But,  while  she  is  there,  it  would 
be  absurd  if  I  might  not  speak  to  any  one." 

Gaspare's  burden  of  doubt,  perhaps  laid  on  his  young 
shoulders  by  his  loyalty  to  his  padrona,  was  evidently 
lightened. 

"I  see,  signore,"  he  said.  "You  can  each  have  a 
friend.  But  have  you  explained  to  Maddalena?" 

"If  you  think  it  necessary,  I  will  explain." 

"It  would  be  better,  because  she  is  Sicilian,  and  she 
must  think  you  love  her." 

"Gaspare!" 

The  boy  looked  at  him  keenly  and  smiled. 

"You  would  like  her  to  think  that?" 
194 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

Maurice  denied  it  vigorously,  but  Gaspare  only  shook 
his  head  and  said: 

"I  know,  I  know.  Girls  are  nicest  when  they  think 
that,  because  they  are  pleased  and  they  want  us  to  go 
on.  You  think  I  see  nothing,  signorino,  but  I  saw  it 
all  in  Maddalena's  face.  Per  Dio!" 

And  he  laughed  aloud,  with  the  delight  of  a  boy  who 
has  discovered  something,  and  feels  that  he  is  clever  and 
a  man.  And  Maurice  laughed  too,  not  without  a  pride 
that  was  joyous.  The  heart  of  his  youth,  the  wild 
heart,  bounded  within  him,  and  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
and  the  passionate  blue  of  the  sea  seemed,  suddenly 
deeper,  more  intense,  more  sympathetic,  as  if  they  felt 
with  him,  as  if  they  knew  the  rapture  of  youth,  as  if 
they  were  created  to  call  it  forth,  to  condone  its  careless- 
ness, to  urge  it  to  some  almost  fierce  fulfilment. 

"Salvatore  is  there,  signorino." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  saw  the  smoke  from  his  pipe.  Look,  there  it  is 
again!" 

A  tiny  trail  of  smoke  curled  up,  and  faded  in  the  blue. 

"  I  will  go  first  because  of  Maddalena.  Girls  are  silly. 
If  I  do  this  at  her  she  will  understand.  If  not  she  may 
show  her  father  you  have  been  here  before." 

He  closed  one  eye  in  a  large  and  expressive  wink. 

"Birbante!" 

"  It  is  good  to  be  birbante  sometimes." 

He  went  out  from  the  trees  and  Maurice  heard  his 
voice,  then  a  man's,  then  Maddalena's.  He  waited  where 
he  was  till  he  heard  Gaspare  say : 

"The  padrone  is  just  behind.  Signorino,  where  are 
you?" 

"Here!"  he  answered,  coming  into  the  open  with  a 
careless  air. 

Before  the  cottage  door  in  the  sunshine  a  great  fishing- 
net  was  drying,  fastened  to  two  wooden  stakes.  Near 
it  stood  Salvatore,  dressed  in  a  dark-blue  jersey,  with  a 
195 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

soft  black  hat  tilted  over  his  left  ear,  above  which  was 
stuck  a  yellow  flower.  Maddalena  was  in  the  doorway 
looking  very  demure.  It  was  evident  that  the  wink  of 
Gaspare  had  been  seen  and  comprehended.  She  stole  a 
glance  at  Maurice  but  did  not  move.  Her  father  took 
off  his  hat  with  an  almost  wildly  polite  gesture,  and  said, 
in  a  loud  voice: 

"Buona  sera,  signore." 

"Buona  sera,"  replied  Maurice,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Salvatore  took  it  in  a  large  grasp. 

"You  are  the  signore  who  lives  up  on  Monte  Amato 
with  the  English  lady?" 

"Yes." 

"I  know.     She  has  gone  to  Africa." 

He  stared  at  Maurice  while  he  spoke,  with  small,  twin- 
kling eyes,  round  which  was  a  minute  and  intricate  web 
of  wrinkles,  and  again  Maurice  felt  almost  —  or  was  it 
quite? — ashamed.  What  were  these  Sicilians  thinking 
of  him  ? 

"The  signora  will  be  back  almost  directly,"  he  said. 
"Is  this  your  daughter?" 

"Yes,  Maddalena.  Bring  a  chair  for  the  signore, 
Maddalena." 

Maddalena  obeyed.  There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her 
face  and  she  did  not  look  at  Maurice.  Gaspare  stood 
pulling  gently  at  the  stretched  -  out  net,  and  smiling. 
That  he  enjoyed  the  mild  deceit  of  the  situation  was 
evident.  Maurice,  too,  felt  amused  and  quite  at  his 
ease  now.  His  sensation  of  shame  had  fleeted  away, 
leaving  only  a  conviction  that  Hermione's  absence  gave 
him  a  right  to  snatch  all  the  pleasure  he  could  from  the 
hands  of  the  passing  hour. 

He  drew  out  his  cigar-case  and  offered  it  to  Salvatore. 

"One  day  I  want  to  come  fishing  with  you  if  you'll 
take  me,"  he  said. 

Salvatore  looked  eager.  A  prospect  of  money  floated 
before  him: 

196 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"I  can  show  you  fine  sport,  signore,"  he  answered, 
taking  one  of  the  long  Havanas  and  examining  it  with 
almost  voluptuous  interest  as  he  turned  it  round  and 
round  in  his  salty,  brown  fingers.  "But  you  should 
come  out  at  dawn,  and  it  is  far  from  the  mountain  to 
the  sea." 

"Couldn't  I  sleep  here,  so  as  to  be  ready?" 

He  stole  a  glance  at  Maddalena.  She  was  looking  at 
her  feet,  and  twisting  the  front  of  her  short  dress,  but 
her  lips  were  twitching  with  a  smile  which  she  tried  to 
repress. 

"Couldn't  I  sleep  here  to-night?"  he  added,  boldly. 

Salvatore  looked  more  eager.  He  loved  money  almost 
as  an  Arab  loves  it,  with  anxious  greed.  Doubtless 
Arab  blood  ran  in  his  veins.  It  was  easy  to  see  from 
whom  Maddalena  had  inherited  her  Eastern  appearance. 
She  reproduced,  on  a  diminished  scale,  her  father's  out- 
line of  face,  but  that  which  was  gentle,  mysterious,  and 
alluring  in  her,  in  him  was  informed  with  a  rugged 
wildness.  There  was  something  birdlike  and  predatory 
in  his  boldly  curving  nose  with  its  narrow  nostrils,  in 
his  hard-lipped  mouth,  full  of  splendid  teeth,  in  his  sharp 
and  pushing  chin.  His  whole  body,  wide-shouldered 
and  deep-chested,  as  befitted  a  man  of  the  sea,  looked 
savage  and  fierce,  but  full  of  an  intensity  of  manhood 
that  was  striking,  and  his  gestures  and  movements,  the 
glance  of  his  penetrating  eyes,  the  turn  of  his  well-poised 
head,  revealed  a  primitive  and  passionate  nature,  a  nat- 
ure with  something  of  the  dagger  in  it,  steely,  sharp,  and 
deadly. 

"  But,  signore,  our  home  is  very  poor.     Look,  signore!" 

A  turkey  strutted  out  through  the  doorway,  elongat- 
ing its  neck  and  looking  nervously  intent. 

"Ps_sh— sh— sh!" 

He  shooed  it  away,  furiously  waving  his  arms. 

"And  what  could  you  eat?  There  is  only  bread  and 
wine." 

197 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"And  the  yellow  cheese!"  said  Maurice. 

"The — ?"     Salvatore  looked  sharply  interrogative. 

"  I  mean,  there  is  always  cheese,  isn't  there,  in  Sicily, 
cheese  and  macaroni  ?  But  if  there  isn't,  it's  all  right. 
Anything  will  do  for  me,  and  I'll  buy  all  the  fish  we 
take  from  you,  and  Maddalena  here  shall  cook  it  for  us 
when  we  come  back  from  the  sea.  Will  you,  Madda- 
lena?" 

"Si,  signore." 

The  answer  came  in  a  very  small  voice. 

"The  signore  is  too  good." 

Salvatore  was  looking  openly  voracious  now. 

"I  can  sleep  on  the  floor." 

"No,  signore.  We  have  beds,  we  have  two  fine  beds. 
Come  in  and  see." 

With  not  a  little  pride  he  led  Maurice  into  the  cottage, 
and  showed  him  the  bed  on  which  he  had  already  slept. 

"That  will  be  for  the  signore,  Gaspare." 

"Si — &  molto  bello." 

"Maddalena  and  I — we  will  sleep  in  the  outer  room." 

"And  I,  Salvatore?"  demanded  the  boy. 

"You!     Do  you  stay  too?" 

"Of  course.     Don't  I  stay,  signore?" 

"Yes,  if  Lucrezia  won't  be  frightened." 

"It  does  not  matter  if  she  is.  When  we  do  not  come 
back  she  will  keep  Guglielmo,  the  contadino." 

"Of  course  you  must  stay.  You  can  sleep  with  me. 
And  to-night  we'll  play  cards  and  sing  and  dance. 
Have  you  got  any  cards,  Salvatore?" 

"Si,  signore.     They  are  dirty,  but — " 

"That's  all  right.  And  we'll  sit  outside  and  tell 
stories,  stories  of  brigands  and  the  sea.  Salvatore, 
when  you  know  me,  you'll  know  I'm  a  true  Sicilian." 

He  grasped  Salvatore's  hand,  but  he  looked  at  Mad- 
dalena. 


XII 

NIGHT  had  come  to  the  Sirens'  Isle — a  night  that  was 
warm,  gentle,  and  caressing.  In  the  cottage  two  candles 
were  lit,  and  the  wick  was  burning  in  the  glass  before 
the  Madonna.  Outside  the  cottage  door,  on  the  flat 
bit  of  ground  that  faced  the  wide  sea,  Salvatore  and  his 
daughter,  Maurice  and  Gaspare,  were  seated  round  the 
table  finishing  their  simple  meal,  for  which  Salvatore 
had  many  times  apologized.  Their  merry  voices,  their 
hearty  laughter  rang  out  in  the  darkness,  and  below  the 
sea  made  answer,  murmuring  against  the  rocks. 

At  the  same  moment  in  an  Arab  house  Hermione  bent 
over  a  sick  man,  praying  against  death,  whose  footsteps 
she  seemed  already  to  hear  coming  into  the  room  and 
approaching  the  bed  on  which  he  tossed,  white  with 
agony.  And  when  he  was  quiet  for  a  little  and  ceased 
from  moving,  she  sat  with  her  hand  on  his  and  thought 
of  Sicily,  and  pictured  her  husband  alone  under  the 
stars  upon  the  terrace  before  the  priest's  house,  and 
imagined  him  thinking  of  her.  The  dry  leaves  of  a 
palm-tree  under  the  window  of  the  room  creaked  in  the 
light  wind  that  blew  over  the  flats,  and  she  strove  to 
hear  the  delicate  rustling  of  the  leaves  of  olive-trees. 

Salvatore  had  little  food  to  offer  his  guests,  only 
bread,  cheese,  and  small,  black  olives;  but  there  was 
plenty  of  good  red  wine,  and  when  the  time  of  brindisi 
was  come  Salvatore  and  Gaspare  called  for  health  after 
health,  and  rivalled  each  other  in  wild  poetic  efforts, 
improvising  extravagant  compliments  to  Maurice,  to  the 
absent  signora,  to  Maddalena,  and  even  to  themselves. 
199 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

And  with  ea-ch  toast  the  wine  went  down  till  Maurice 
called  a  halt. 

"I  am  a  real  Sicilian,"  he  said.  "But  if  I  drink  any 
more  I  shall  be  under  the  table.  Get  out  the  cards, 
Salvatore.  Sette  e  mezzo,  and  I'll  put  down  the  stakes. 
No  one  to  go  above  twenty-five  centesimi,  with  fifty  for 
the  doubling.  Gaspare's  sure  to  win.  He  always  does. 
And  I've  just  one  cigar  apiece.  There's  no  wind.  Bring 
out  the  candles  and  let's  play  out  here." 

Gaspare  ran  for  the  candles  while  Salvatore  got  the 
cards,  well-thumbed  and  dirty.  Maddalena's  long  eyes 
were  dancing.  Such  a  festa  as  this  was  rare  in  her  life, 
for,  dwelling  far  from  the  village,  she  seldom  went  to 
any  dance  or  festivity.  Her  blood  was  warm  with  the 
wine  and  with  joy,  and  the  youth  in  her  seemed  to  flow 
like  the  sea  in  a  flood-tide.  Scarcely  ever  before  had 
she  seen  her  harsh  father  so  riotously  gay,  so  easy  with 
a  stranger,  and  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  this  was  her 
festival.  Maurice's  merry  and  ardent  eyes  told  her  that, 
and  Gaspare's  smiling  glances  of  boyish  understanding. 
She  felt  excited,  almost  light-headed,  childishly  proud  of 
herself.  If  only  some  of  the  girls  of  Marechiaro  could 
see,  could  know! 

When  the  cards  were  thrown  upon  the  table,  and 
Maurice  had  dealt  out  a  lira  to  each  one  of  the  players 
as  stakes,  and  cried,  "Maddalena  and  I'll  share  against 
you,  Salvatore,  and  Gaspare!"  she  felt  that  she  had 
nothing  more  to  wish  for,  that  she  was  perfectly  happy. 
But  she  was  happier  still  when,  after  a  series  of  games, 
Maurice  pushed  back  his  chair  and  said : 

"I've  had  enough.  Salvatore,  you  are  like  Gaspare, 
you  have  the  devil's  luck.  Together  you  can't  be 
beaten.  But  now  you  play  against  each  other  and  let's 
see  who  wins.  I'll  put  down  twenty-five  lire.  Play  till 
one  of  you's  won  every  soldo  of  it.  Play  all  night  if 
you  like." 

And  he  counted  out  the  little  paper  notes  on  the  table, 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

giving  two  to  Salvatore  and  two  to  Gaspare,  and  putting 
one  under  a  candlestick. 

."I'll  keep  the  score,"  he  added,  pulling  out  a  pencil 
and  a  sheet  of  paper.  "No  play  higher  than  fifty,  with 
a  lira  when  one  of  you  makes  '  sette  e  mezzo '  with  under 
four  cards." 

"Per  Dio!"  cried  Gaspare,  flushed  with  excitement. 
"Avanti,  Salvatore!" 

"Avanti,  Avanti!"  cried  Salvatore,  in  answer,  pulling 
his  chair  close  up  to  the  table,  and  leaning  forward, 
looking  like  a  handsome  bird  of  prey  in  the  faint  candle- 
light. 

They  cut  for  deal  and  began  to  play,  while  Madda- 
lena  and  Maurice  watched. 

When  Sicilians  gamble  they  forget  everything  but 
the  game  and  the  money  which  it  brings  to  them  or 
takes  from  them.  Salvatore  and  Gaspare  were  at  once 
passionately  intent  on  their  cards,  and  as  the  night 
drew  on  and  fortune  favored  first  one  and  then  the 
other,  they  lost  all  thought  of  everything  except  the 
twenty-five  lire  which  were  at  stake.  When  Madda- 
lena  slipped  away  into  the  darkness  they  did  not  notice 
her  departure,  and  when  Maurice  laid  down  the  paper  on 
which  he  had  tried  to  keep  the  score,  and  followed  her, 
they  were  indifferent.  They  needed  no  score-keeper, 
for  they  had  Sicilian  memories  for  money  matters. 
Over  the  table  they  leaned,  the  two  candles,  now  burn- 
ing low,  illuminating  their  intense  faces,  their  violent 
eyes,  their  brown  hands  that  dealt  and  gathered  up 
the  cards,  and  held  them  warily,  alert  for  the  cheating 
that  in  Sicily,  when  possible,  is  ever  part  of  the  game. 

"Carta  da  cin quanta!" 

They  had  forgotten  Maurice's  limit  for  the  stakes. 

"Carta  da  cento!" 

Their  voices  died  away  from  Maurice's  ears  as  he  stole 
through  the  darkness  seeking  Maddalena. 

Where  had  she  gone,  and  why?     The  last  question 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

he  could  surely  answer,  for  as  she  stole  past  him  silently, 
her  long,  mysterious  eyes,  that  seemed  to  hold  in  their 
depths  some  enigma  of  the  East,  had  rested  on  his 
with  a  glance  that  was  an  invitation.  They  had  not 
boldly  summoned  him.  They  had  lured  him,  as  an 
echo  might,  pathetic  in  its  thrilling  frailty.  And  now, 
as  he  walked  softly  over  the  dry  grass,  he  thought  of 
those  eyes  as  he  had  first  seen  them  in  the  pale  light 
that  had  preceded  the  dawn.  Then  they  had  been  full 
of  curiosity,  like  a  young  animal's.  Now  surely  they 
were  changed.  Once  they  had  asked  a  question.  They 
delivered  a  summons  to-night.  What  was  in  them  to- 
night? The  mystery  of  young  maidenhood,  southern, 
sunlit,  on  the  threshold  of  experience,  waking  to  curi- 
ous knowledge,  to  a  definite  consciousness  of  the  mean- 
ing of  its  dreams,  of  the  truth  of  its  desires. 

When  he  was  out  of  hearing  of  the  card-players  Mau- 
rice stood  still.  He  felt  the  breath  of  the  sea  on  his  face. 
He  heard  the  murmur  of  the  sea  everywhere  around 
him,  a  murmur  that  in  its  level  monotony  excited  him, 
thrilled  him,  as  the  level  monotony  of  desert  music 
excites  the  African  in  the  still  places  of  the  sand.  His 
pulses  were  beating,  and  there  was  an  almost  savage 
light  in  his  eyes.  Something  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
sea-bound  retreat  made  him  feel  emancipated,  as  if  he 
had  stepped  out  of  the  prison  of  civilized  life  into  a 
larger,  more  thoughtless  existence,  an  existence  for 
which  his  inner  nature  fitted  him,  for  which  he  had 
surely  been  meant  all  these  years  that  he  had  lived,  un- 
conscious of  what  he  really  was  and  of  what  he  really 
needed. 

"How  happy  I  could  have  been  as  a  Sicilian  fisher- 
man!" he  thought.  "How  happy  I  could  be  now!" 

"St!     St!" 

He  looked  round  quickly. 

"St!     St!" 

It  must  be   Maddalena,   but  where   was   she?     He 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

moved  forward  till  he  was  at  the  edge  of  the  land  where 
the  tiny  path  wound  steeply  downward  to  the  sea.  There 
she  was  standing  with  her  face  turned  in  his  direction, 
and  her  lips  opened  to  repeat  the  little  summoning  sound. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  there?"  he  said,  whisper- 
ing, as  he  joined  her.  "Did  you  hear  me  come?" 

"No,  signore." 

"Then—" 

"Signorino,  I  felt  that  you  were  there." 

He  smiled.  It  pleased  him  to  think  that  he  threw 
out  something,  some  invisible  thread,  perhaps,  that 
reached  her  and  told  her  of  his  nearness.  Such  com- 
munication made  sympathy.  He  did  not  say  it  to  him- 
self, but  his  sensation  to-night  was  that  everything  was 
in  sympathy  with  him,  the  night  with  its  stars,  the  sea 
with  its  airs  and  voices,  Maddalena  with  her  long  eyes 
and  her  brown  hands,  and  her  knowledge  of  his  pres- 
ence when  she  did  not  see  or  hear  him. 

"Let  us  go  down  to  the  sea,"  he  said. 

He  longed  to  be  nearer  to  that  low  and  level  sound 
that  moved  and  excited  him  in  the  night. 

"Father's  boat  is  there,"  she  said.  "It  is  so  calm 
to-night  that  he  did  not  bring  it  round  into  the  bay." 

"If  we  go  out  in  it  for  a  minute,  will  he  mind?" 

A  sly  look  came  into  her  face. 

"  He  will  not  know,"  she  said.  "  With  all  that  money 
Gaspare  and  he  will  play  till  dawn.  Per  Dio,  signore, 
you  are  birbante!" 

She  gave  a  little  low  laugh. 

"So  you  think  I — " 

He  stopped.  What  need  was  there  to  go  on?  She 
had  read  him  and  was  openly  rejoicing  in  what  she 
thought  his  slyness. 

"And  my  father,"  she  added,  "is  a  fox  of  the  sea, 
signore.  Ask  Gaspare  if  there  is  another  who  is  like 
him.  You  will  see!  When  they  stop  playing  at  dawn 
the  twenty-five  lire  will  be  in  his  pocket!" 

14  2°3 


THE   CALL  OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  spoke  with  pride. 

"But  Gaspare  is  so  lucky,"  said  Maurice. 

"Gaspare  is  only  a  boy.  How  can  he  cheat  better 
than  my  father?" 

"They  cheat,  then!" 

"Of  course,  when  they  can.     Why  not,  madonna!" 

Maurice  burst  out  laughing. 

"And  you  call  me  birbante!"  he  said. 

"To  know  what  my  father  loves  best!  Signorino! 
Signorino!" 

She  shook  her  out-stretched  forefinger  to  and  fro  near 
her  nose,  smiling,  with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side  like 
a  crafty  child. 

"  But  why,  Maddalena — why  should  I  wish  your  father 
to  play  cards  till  the  dawn.  Tell  me  that!  Why  should 
not  I  wish  him,  all  of  us,  to  go  to  bed?" 

"You  are  not  sleepy,  signorino!" 

"I  shall  be  in  the  morning  when  it's  time  to  fish." 

"Then  perhaps  you  will  not  fish." 

"But  I  must.  That  is  why  I  have  stayed  here  to- 
night, to  be  ready  to  go  to  sea  in  the  morning." 

She  said  nothing,  only  smiled  again.  He  felt  a  long- 
ing to  shake  her  in  joke.  She  was  such  a  child  now. 
And  yet  a  few  minutes  ago  her  dark  eyes  had  lured  him, 
and  he  had  felt  almost  as  if  in  seeking  her  he  sought  a 
mystery. 

"Don't  you  believe  me?"  he  asked. 

But  she  only  answered,  with  her  little  gesture  of  smil- 
ing rebuke: 

' '  Signorino !     Signorino ! ' ' 

He  did  not  protest,  for  now  they  were  down  by  the 
sea,  and  saw  the  fishing -boats  swaying  gently  on  the 
water. 

"Get  in  Maddalena.     I  will  row." 

He  untied  the  rope,  while  she  stepped  lightly  in,  then 
he  pushed  the  boat  off,  jumping  in  himself  from  the 
rocks. 

204 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"You  are  like  a  fisherman,  signore,"  said  Maddalena. 

He  smiled  and  drew  the  great  bladed  oars  slowly 
through  the  calm  water,  leaning  towards  her  with  each 
stroke  and  looking  into  her  eyes. 

''I  wish  I  were  really  a  fisherman,"  he  said,  "like 
your  father!" 

"Why,  signore?"  she  asked,  in  astonishment. 

"  Because  it's  a  free  life,  because  it's  a  life  I  should 
love." 

She  still  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"But  a  fisherman  has  few  soldi,  signorino." 

"Maddalena,"  he  said,  letting  the  oars  drift  in  the 
water,  "there's  only  one  good  thing  in  the  world,  and 
that  is  to  be  free  in  a  life  that  is  natural  to  one." 

He  drew  up  his  feet  onto  the  wooden  bench  and 
clasped  his  hands  round  his  knees,  and  sat  thus,  look- 
ing at  her  while  she  faced  him  in  the  stern  of  the  boat. 
He  had  not  turned  the  boat  round.  So  Maddalena  had 
her  face  towards  the  land,  while  his  was  set  towards  the 
open  sea. 

"It  isn't  having  many  soldi  that  makes  happiness," 
he  went  on.  "Gaspare  thinks  it  is,  and  Lucrezia,  and 
I  dare  say  your  father  would — 

"Oh  yes,  signore!     In  Sicily  we  all  think  so!" 

"And  so  they  do  in  England.     But  it  isn't  true." 

"But  if  you  have  many  soldi  you  can  do  anything." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No  you  can't.  I  have  plenty  of  soldi,  but  I  can't 
always  live  here,  I  can't  always  live  as  I  do  now.  Some 
day  I  shall  have  to  go  away  from  Sicily — I  shall  have 
to  go  back  and  live  in  London." 

As  he  said  the  last  words  he  seemed  to  see  London 
rise  up  before  him  in  the  night,  with  shadowy  domes 
and  towers  and  chimneys;  he  seemed  to  hear  through 
the  exquisite  silence  of  night  upon  the  sea  the  mutter 
of  its  many  voices. 

"It's  beastly  there!     It's  beastly  1" 
205 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

And  he  set  his  teeth  almost  viciously. 

"Why  must  you  go,  then,  signorino?" 

"Why?     Oh,  I  have  work  to  do." 

"But  if  you  are  rich  why  must  you  work?" 

"Well — I — I  can't  explain  in  Italian.  But  my  father 
expects  me  to." 

"To  get  more  rich?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose." 

"But  if  you  are  rich  why  cannot  you  live  as  you 
please?" 

"I  don't  know,  Maddalena.  But  the  rich  scarcely 
ever  live  really  as  they  please,  I  think.  Their  soldi 
won't  let  them,  perhaps." 

"I  don't  understand,  signore." 

"Well,  a  man  must  do  something,  must  get  on,  and 
if  I  lived  always  here  I  should  do  nothing  but  enjoy 
myself." 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute.     Then  he  said: 

"And  that's  all  I  want  to  do,  just  to  enjoy  myself 
here  in  the  sun." 

"Are  you  happy  here,  signorino?" 

"Yes,  tremendously  happy." 

"Why?" 

"  Why — because  it's  Sicily  here!     Aren't  you  happy  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  signorino." 

She  said  it  with  simplicity  and  looked  at  him  almost 
as  if  she  were  inquiring  of  him  whether  she  were  happy 
or  not.  That  look  tempted  him. 

"Don't  you  know  whether  you  are  happy  to-night?" 
he  asked,  putting  an  emphasis  on  the  last  word,  and 
looking  at  her  more  steadily,  almost  cruelly. 

"Oh,  to-night — it  is  a  festa." 

"A  festa?     Why?" 

"Why?  Because  it  is  different  from  other  nights. 
On  other  nights  I  am  alone  with  my  father." 

"And  to-night  you  are  alone  with  me.  Does  that 
make  it  a  festa?" 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  looked  down. 

"I  don't  know,  signorino." 

The  childish  merriment  and  slyness  had  gone  out  of 
her  now,  and  there  was  a  softness  almost  of  sentimental- 
ity in  her  attitude,  as  she  drooped  her  head  and  moved 
one  hand  to  and  fro  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  touch- 
ing the  wood,  now  here,  now  there,  as  if  she  were  picking 
up  something  and  dropping  it  gently  into  the  sea. 

Suddenly  Maurice  wondered  about  Maddalena.  He 
wondered  whether  she  had  ever  had  a  Sicilian  lover, 
whether  she  had  one  now. 

"You  are  not  'promised,'  are  you,  Maddalena?"  he 
asked,  leaning  a  little  nearer  to  her.  He  saw  the  red 
come  into  her  brown  skin.  She  shook  her  head  with- 
out looking  up  or  speaking. 

"I  wonder  why,"  he  said.  "I  think — I  think  there 
must  be  men  who  want  you." 

She  slightly  raised  her  head. 

"Oh  yes,  there  are,  signore.  But — but  I  must  wait 
till  my  father  chooses  one." 

"Your  father  will  choose  the  man  who  is  to  be  your 
husband?" 

"Of  course,  signore." 

"But  perhaps  you  won't  like  him." 

"Oh,  I  shall  have  to  like  him,  signore." 

She  did  not  speak  with  any  bitterness  or  sarcasm,  but 
with  perfect  simplicity.  A  feeling  of  pity  that  was  cer- 
tainly not  Sicilian  but  that  came  from  the  English  blood 
in  him  stole  into  Maurice's  heart.  Maddalena  looked 
so  soft  and  young  in  the  dim  beauty  of  the  night,  so 
ready  to  be  cherished,  to  be  treated  tenderly,  or  with 
the  ardor  that  is  the  tender  cruelty  of  passion,  that  her 
childlike  submission  to  the  Sicilian  code  woke  in  him 
an  almost  hot  pugnacity.  She  would  be  given,  per- 
haps, to  some  hard  brute  of  a  fisherman  who  had  scraped 
together  more  soldi  than  his  fellows,  or  to  some  coarse, 
avaricious  contadino  who  would  make  her  toil  till  her 
207 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

beauty  vanished,  and  she  changed  into  a  bowed,  wrinkled 
withered,  sun-dried  hag,  while  she  was  yet  young  in 
years. 

"I  wish,"  he  said — "I  wish,  when  you  have  to  marry, 
I  could  choose  your  husband,  Maddalena." 

She  lifted  her  head  quite  up  and  regarded  him  with 
wonder. 

"You,  signorino!     Why?" 

"  Because  I  would  choose  a  man  who  would  be  very 
good  to  you,  who  would  love  you  and  work  for  you  and 
always  think  of  you,  and  never  look  at  another  woman. 
That  is  how  your  husband  should  be." 

She  looked  more  wondering. 

"  Are  you  like  that,  then,  signore  ?"  she  asked.  "  With 
the  signora?" 

Maurice  unclasped  his  hands  from  his  knees,  and 
dropped  his  feet  down  from  the  bench. 

"I!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  had  changed.  "Oh — • 
yes — I  don't  know." 

He  took  the  oars  again  and  began  to  row  farther  out 
to  sea. 

"I  was  talking  about  you,"  he  said,  almost  roughly. 

"I  have  never  seen  your  signora,"  said  Maddalena. 
"  What  is  she  like  ?"  Maurice  saw  Hermione  before  him 
in  the  night,  tall,  flat,  with  her  long  arms,  her  rugged, 
intelligent  face,  her  enthusiastic  brown  eyes. 

"Is  she  pretty?"  continued  Maddalena.  "Is  she  as 
young  as  I  am?" 

"She  is  good,  Maddalena,"  Maurice  answered. 

"Is  she  santa?" 

"I  don't  mean  that.     But  she  is  good  to  every  one." 

"But  is  she  pretty,  too?"  she  persisted.  "And 
young?" 

"She  is  not  at  all  old.     Some  day  you  shall  see — " 

He  checked  himself.  He  had  been  going  to  say, 
"Some  day  you  shall  see  her." 

"And  she  is  very  clever,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 
208 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Clever?"  said  Maddalena,  evidently  not  understand- 
ing what  he  meant. 

"She  can  understand  many  things  and  she  has  read 
many  books." 

"  But  what  is  the  good  of  that  ?  Why  should  a  girl 
read  many  books?" 

"She  is  not  a  girl." 

"Not  a  girl!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  amazed  eyes  and  her  voice 
was  full  of  amazement. 

"How  old  are  you,  signorino?"  she  asked. 

"How  old  do  you  think?" 

She  considered  him  carefully  for  a  long  time. 

"Old  enough  to  make  the  visit,"  she  said,  at  length. 

"The  visit?" 

"Yes." 

"What?     Oh,  do  you  mean  to  be  a  soldier?" 

"Si,  signore." 

"That  would  be  twenty,  wouldn't  it?" 

She  nodded. 

"  I  am  older  than  that.     I  am  twenty-four." 

"Truly?" 

"Truly." 

"And  is  the  signora  twenty-four,  too?" 

"Maddalena!"  Maurice  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  im- 
patience that  was  almost  fierce.  "  Why  do  you  keep  on 
talking  about  the  signora  to-night  ?  This  is  your  festa. 
The  signora  is  in  Africa,  a  long  way  off — there — across 
the  sea."  He  stretched  out  his  arm,  and  pointed  tow- 
ards the  wide  waters  above  which  the  stars  were  watch- 
ing. "When  she  comes  back  you  can  see  her,  if  you 
wish — but  now — " 

"When  is  she  coming  back?"  asked  the  girl. 

There  was  an  odd  pertinacity  in  her  character,  almost 
an  obstinacy,  despite  her  young  softness  and  gentleness. 

"I  don't  know,"  Maurice  said,  with  difficulty  control- 
ling his  gathering  impatience. 
209 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Why  did  she  go  away?" 

"To  nurse  some  one  who  is  ill." 

"She  went  all  alone  across  the  sea?" 

"Yes." 

Maddalena  turned  and  looked  into  the  dimness  of  the 
sea  with  a  sort  of  awe. 

"I  should  be  afraid,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

And  she  shivered  slightly. 

Maurice  had  let  go  the  oars  again.  He  felt  a  longing 
to  put  his  arm  round  her  when  he  saw  her  shiver.  The 
night  created  many  longings  in  him,  a  confusion  of  long- 
ings, of  which  he  was  just  becoming  aware. 

"You  are  a  child,"  he  said,  "and  have  never  been 
away  from  your  'paese.'" 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"Where?" 

"  I  have  been  to  the  fair  of  San  Felice." 

He  smiled. 

"Oh — San  Felice!     And  did  you  go  in  the  train?" 

"Oh  no,  signore.  I  went  on  a  donkey.  It  was  last 
year,  in  June.  It  was  beautiful.  There  were  women 
there  in  blue  silk  dresses  with  ear-rings  as  long  as  that" 
— she  measured  their  length  in  the  air  with  her  brown 
fingers — "and  there  was  a  boy  from  Napoli,  a  real 
Napolitano,  who  sang  and  danced  as  we  do  not  dance 
here.  I  was  very  happy  that  day.  And  I  was  given 
an  image  of  Sant'  Abbondio." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  dignity,  as  if  ex- 
pecting him  to  be  impressed. 

"Carissima!"  he  whispered,  almost  under  his  breath. 

Her  little  air  of  pride,  as  of  a  travelled  person,  en- 
chanted him,  even  touched  him,  he  scarcely  knew  why, 
as  he  had  never  been  enchanted  or  touched  by  any 
London  beauty. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  at  the  fair  with  you.  I  would 
have  given  you — " 

"What,  signorino?"  she  interrupted,  eagerly. 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"A  blue  silk  dress  and  a  pair  of  ear-rings  longer — 
much  longer — than  those  women  wore." 

"Really,  signorino?     Really?" 

"Really  and  truly!     Do  you  doubt  me?" 
."No." 

She  sighed. 

"  How  I  wish  you  had  been  there!     But  this  year — " 

She  stopped,  hesitating. 

"Yes — this  year?" 

"In  June  there  will  be  the  fair  again." 

He  moved  from  his  seat,  softly  and  swiftly,  turned  the 
boat's  prow  towards  the  open  sea,  then  went  and  sat 
down  by  her  in  the  stern. 

"We  will  go  there,"  he  said,  "you  and  I  and  Gas- 
pare— " 

"And  my  father." 

"All  of  us  together." 

"And  if  the  signora  is  back?" 

Maurice  was  conscious  of  a  desire  that  startled  him 
like  a  sudden  stab  from  something  small  and  sharp — the 
desire  that  on  that  day  Hermione  should  not  be  with  him 
in  Sicily. 

"I  dare  say  the  signora  will  not  be  back." 

"  But  if  she  is,  will  she  come,  too  ?" 

" Do  you  think  you  would  like  it  better  if  she  came?" 

He  was  so  close  to  her  now  that  his  shoulder  touched 
hers.  Their  faces  were  set  seaward  and  were  kissed  by 
the  breath  of  the  sea.  Their  eyes  saw  the  same  stars 
and  were  kissed  by  the  light  of  the  stars.  And  the 
subtle  murmur  of  the  tide  spoke  to  them  both  as  if  they 
were  one. 

"Do  you?"  he  repeated.     "Do  you  think  so?" 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  she  responded. 

He  thought,  when  she  said  that,  that  her  voice  sounded 
less  simple  than  before. 

"You  do  know!"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

ill 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"You  do!"  he  repeated. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  her  hand.  He 
had  to  take  it. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me?" 

She  had  turned  her  head  away  from  him,  and  now, 
speaking  as  if  to  the  sea,  she  said: 

"Perhaps  if  she  was  there  you  could  not  give  me  the 
blue  silk  dress  and  the — and  the  ear-rings.  Perhaps  she 
would  not  like  it." 

For  a  moment  he  thought  he  was  disappointed  by  her 
answer.  Then  he  knew  that  he  loved  it,  for  its  utter 
naturalness,  its  laughable  naivete".  It  seemed,  too,  to 
set  him  right  in  his  own  eyes,  to  sweep  away  a  creeping 
feeling  that  had  been  beginning  to  trouble  him.  He 
was  playing  with  a  child.  That  was  all.  There  was  no 
harm  in  it.  And  when  he  had  kissed  her  in  the  dawn 
he  had  been  kissing  a  child,  playfully,  kindly,  as  a  big 
brother  might.  And  if  he  kissed  her  now  it  would  mean 
nothing  to  her.  And  if  it  did  mean  something — just  a 
little  more — to  him,  that  did  not  matter. 

"Bambina  mia!"  he  said. 

"I  am  not  a  bambina,"  she  said,  turning  towards  him 
again. 

"Yes  you  are." 

"Then  you  are  a  bambino." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  feel  like  a  boy  to-night,  like  a  naughty 
little  boy." 

"Naughty,  signorino?" 

"Yes,  because  I  want  to  do  something  that  I  ought 
not  to  do." 

"What  is  it?" 

"This,  Maddalena." 

And  he  kissed  her.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  kissed 
her  in  darkness,  for  on  his  second  visit  to  the  sirens' 
house  he  had  only  taken  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  that 
was  nothing.  The  kiss  in  the  dawn  had  been  light,  gay, 
a  sort  of  laughing  good-bye  to  a  kind  hostess  who  was 
212 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

of  a  class  that,  he  supposed,  thought  little  of  kisses. 
But  this  kiss  in  the  night,  on  the  sea,  was  different.  Only 
when  he  had  given  it  did  he  understand  how  different  it 
was,  how  much  more  it  meant  to  him.  For  Maddalena 
returned  it  gently  with  her  warm  young  lips,  and  her 
response  stirred  something  at  his  heart  that  was  surely 
the  very  essence  of  the  life  within  him. 

He  held  her  hands. 

"Maddalena!"  he  said,  and  there  was  in  his  voice  a 
startled  sound.  "Maddalena!" 

Again  Hermione  had  risen  up  before  him  in  the  night, 
almost  as  one  who  walked  upon  the  sea.  He  was  con- 
scious of  wrong-doing.  The  innocence  of  his  relation 
with  Maddalena  seemed  suddenly  to  be  tarnished,  and 
the  happiness  of  the  starry  night  to  be  clouded.  He 
felt  like  one  who,  in  summer,  becomes  aware  of  a  heavi- 
ness creeping  into  the  atmosphere,  the  message  of  a 
coming  tempest  that  will  presently  transform  the  face 
of  nature.  Surely  there  was  a  mist  before  the  faces  of 
the  stars. 

She  said  nothing,  only  looked  at  him  as  if  she  wanted 
to  know  many  things  which  only  he  could  tell  her,  which 
he  had  begun  to  tell  her.  That  was  her  fascination  for 
his  leaping  youth,  his  wild  heart  of  youth — this  ignorance 
and  this  desire  to  know.  He  had  sat  in  spirit  at  the 
feet  of  Hermione  and  loved  her  with  a  sort  of  boyish 
humbleness.  Now  one  sat  at  his  feet.  And  the  attitude 
woke  up  in  him  a  desire  that  was  fierce  in  its  intensity — 
the  desire  to  teach  Maddalena  the  great  realities  of  love. 

' '  Hi — y  i — yi — yi — yi ! ' ' 

Faintly  there  came  to  them  a  cry  across  the  sea. 

"Gaspare!"  Maurice  said. 

He  turned  his  head.  In  the  darkness,  high  up,  he  saw  a 
light,  descending,  ascending,  then  describing  a  wild  circle. 

"Hi— yi— yi— yi!" 

"  Row  back,  signorino!  They  have  done  playing,  and 
my  father  will  be  angry." 

213 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

He  moved,  took  the  oars,  and  sent  the  boat  towards 
the  island.  The  physical  exertion  calmed  him,  restored 
him  to  himself. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  "there  is  no  harm  in  it." 

And  he  laughed. 

"Which  has  won,  Maddalena?"  he  said,  looking  back 
at  her  over  his  shoulder,  for  he  was  standing  up  and 
rowing  with  his  face  towards  the  land. 

"I  hope  it  is  my  father,  signorino.  If  he  has  got  the 
money  he  will  not  be  angry;  but  if  Gaspare  has  it — " 

"Your  father  is  a  fox  of  the  sea,  and  can  cheat  better 
than  a  boy.  Don't  be  frightened." 

When  they  reached  the  land,  Salvatore  and  Gaspare 
met  them.  Gaspare's  face  was  glum,  but  Salvatore's 
small  eyes  were  sparkling. 

"I  have  won  it  all — all!"  he  said.     "Ecco!" 

And  he  held  out  his  hand  with  the  notes. 

"Salvatore  is  birbante!"  said  Gaspare,  sullenly.  "He 
did  not  win  it  fairly.  I  saw  him — 

"Never  mind,  Gaspare!"  said  Maurice. 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"To-morrow  I'll  give  you  the  same,"  he  whispered. 

"And  now,"  he  added,  aloud,  "let's  go  to  bed.  I've 
been  rowing  Maddalena  round  the  island  and  I'm  tired. 
I  shall  sleep  like  a  top." 

As  they  went  up  the  steep  path  he  took  Salvatore 
familiarly  by  the  arm. 

"You  are  too  clever,  Salvatore,"  he  said.  "You 
play  too  well  for  Gaspare." 

Salvatore  chuckled  and  handled  the  five-lire  notes 
voluptuously. 

"Cci  basu  li  manu!"  he  said.     "Cci  basu  li  manu!" 


XIII 

MAURICE  lay  on  the  big  bed  in  the  inner  room  of  the 
siren's  house,  under  the  tiny  light  that  burned  before 
Maria  Addolorata.  The  door  of  the  house  was  shut, 
and  he  heard  no  more  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  Gaspare 
was  curled  up  on  the  floor,  on  a  bed  made  of  some  old 
sacking,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  jacket,  which  he  had 
taken  off  to  use  as  a  pillow.  In  the  far  room  Madda- 
lena  and  her  father  were  asleep.  Maurice  could  hear 
their  breathing,  Maddalena's  light  and  faint,  Salvatore's 
heavy  and  whistling,  and  degenerating  now  and  then 
into  a  sort  of  stifled  snore.  But  sleep  did  not  come  to 
Maurice.  His  eyes  were  open,  and  his  clasped  hands 
supported  his  head.  He  was  thinking,  thinking  almost 
angrily. 

He  loved  joy  as  few  Englishmen  love  it,  but  as  many 
southerners  love  it.  His  nature  needed  joy,  was  made 
to  be  joyous.  And  such  natures  resent  the  intrusion 
into  their  existence  of  any  complications  which  make 
for  tragedy  as  northern  natures  seldom  resent  anything. 
To-night  Maurice  had  a  grievance  against  fate,  and  he 
was  considering  it  wrathfully  and  not  without  confusion. 

Since  he  had  kissed  Maddalena  in  the  night  he  was 
disturbed,  almost  unhappy.  And  yet  he  was  surely  face 
to  face  with  something  that  was  more  than  happiness. 
The  dancing  faun  was  dimly  aware  that  in  his  nature 
there  was  not  only  the  capacity  for  gayety,  for  the  per- 
formance of  the  tarantella,  but  also  a  capacity  for  vio- 
lence which  he  had  never  been  conscious  of  when  he 
was  in  England.  It  had  surely  been  developed  within 
2IS 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

him  by  the  sun,  by  the  coming  of  the  heat  in  this  de- 
licious land.  It  was  like  an  intoxication  of  the  blood, 
something  that  went  to  head  as  well  as  heart.  He 
wondered  what  it  meant,  what  it  might  lead  him  to. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  faintly  aware  of  its  beginnings  on 
that  day  when  jealousy  dawned  within  him  as  he 
thought  of  his  wife,  his  woman,  nursing  her  friend  in 
Africa.  Now  it  was  gathering  strength  like  a  stream 
flooded  by  rains,  but  it  was  taking  a  different  direction 
in  its  course. 

He  turned  upon  the  pillow  so  that  he  could  see  the 
light  burning  before  the  Madonna.  The  face  of  the 
Madonna  was  faintly  visible  —  a  long,  meek  face  with 
downcast  eyes.  Maddalena  crossed  herself  often  when  she 
looked  at  that  face.  Maurice  put  up  his  hand  to  make 
the  sign,  then  dropped  it  with  a  heavy  sigh.  He  was 
not  a  Catholic.  His  religion — what  was  it  ?  Sun  wor- 
ship perhaps,  the  worship  of  the  body,  the  worship  of 
whim.  He  did  not  know  or  care  much.  He  felt  so  full 
of  life  and  energy  that  the  far,  far  future  after  death 
scarcely  interested  him.  The  present  was  his  concern, 
the  present  after  that  kiss  in  the  night.  He  had  loved 
Hermione.  Surely  he  loved  her  now.  He  did  love  her 
now.  And  yet  when  he  had  kissed  her  he  had  never 
been  shaken  by  the  headstrong  sensation  that  had  hold 
of  him  to-night,  the  desire  to  run  wild  in  love.  He 
looked  up  to  Hermione.  The  feeling  of  reverence  had 
been  a  governing  factor  in  his  love  for  her.  Now  it 
seemed  to  him  that  a  feeling  of  reverence  was  a  barrier 
in  the  path  of  love,  something  to  create  awe,  admira- 
tion, respect,  but  scarcely  the  passion  that  irresistibly 
draws  man  to  woman.  And  yet  he  did  love  Hermione. 
He  was  confused,  horribly  confused. 

For  he  knew  that  his  longing  was  towards  Madda- 
lena. 

He  would  like  to  rise  up  in  the  dawn,  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  to  carry  her  off  in  a  boat  upon  the  sea,  or  to 
216 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

set  her  on  a  mule  and  lead  her  up  far  away  into  the 
recesses  of  the  mountains.  By  rocky  paths  he  would 
lead  her,  beyond  the  olives  and  the  vines,  beyond  the 
last  cottage  of  the  contadini,  up  to  some  eyrie  from 
which  they  could  look  down  upon  the  sunlit  world.  He 
wanted  to  be  in  wildness  with  her,  inexorably  divided 
from  all  the  trammels  of  civilization.  A  desire  of 
savagery  had  hold  upon  him  to-night.  He  did  not  go 
into  detail.  He  did  not  think  of  how  they  would  pass 
their  days.  Everything  presented  itself  to  him  broad- 
ly, tumultuously,  with  a  surging,  onward  movement  of 
almost  desperate  advance. 

He  wanted  to  teach  those  dark,  inquiring  young  eyes 
all  that  they  asked  to  know,  to  set  in  them  the  light  of 
knowledge,  to  make  them  a  woman's  eyes. 

And  that  he  could  never  do. 

His  whole  body  was  throbbing  with  heat,  and  tin- 
gling with  a  desire  of  movement,  of  activity.  The 
knowledge  that  all  this  beating  energy  was  doomed  to 
uselessness,  was  born  to  do  nothing,  tortured  him. 

He  tried  to  think  steadily  of  Hermione,  but  he  found 
the  effort  a  difficult  one.  She  was  remote  from  his 
body,  and  that  physical  remoteness  seemed  to  set  her 
far  from  his  spirit,  too.  In  him,  though  he  did  not 
know  it,  was  awake  to-night  the  fickleness  of  the  south, 
of  the  southern  spirit  that  forgets  so  quickly  what  is 
no  longer  near  to  the  southern  body.  The  sun  makes 
bodily  men,  makes  very  strong  the  chariot  of  the  flesh. 
Sight  and  touch  are  needful,  the  actions  of  the  body,  to 
keep  the  truly  southern  spirit  true.  Maurice  could  neither 
touch  nor  see  Hermione.  In  her  unselfishness  she  had 
committed  the  error  of  dividing  herself  from  him.  The 
natural  consequences  of  that  self-sacrifice  were  spring- 
ing up  now  like  the  little  yellow  flowers  in  the  grasses 
of  the  lemon  groves.  With  all  her  keen  intelligence 
she  made  the  mistake  of  the  enthusiast,  that  of  read- 
ing into  those  whom  she  loved  her  own  shining  qualities, 
217 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

of  seeing  her  own  sincerities,  her  own  faithfulness,  her 
own  strength,  her  own  utter  loyalty  looking  out  on 
her  from  them.  She  would  probably  have  denied  that 
this  was  so,  but  so  it  was.  At  this  very  moment  in 
Africa,  while  she  watched  at  the  bedside  of  Artois,  she 
was  thinking  of  her  husband's  love  for  her,  loyalty  to 
her,  and  silently  blessing  him  for  it;  she  was  thanking 
God  that  she  had  drawn  such  a  prize  in  the  lottery  of 
life.  And  had  she  been  already  separated  from  Maurice 
for  six  months  she  would  never  have  dreamed  of  doubt- 
ing his  perfect  loyalty  now  that  he  had  once  loved  her 
and  taken  her  to  be  his.  The  "all  in  all  or  not  at  all" 
nature  had  been  given  to  Hermione.  She  must  live, 
rejoice,  suffer,  die,  according  to  that  nature.  She 
knew  much,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  hold  herself 
back,  how  to  be  cautious  where  she  loved,  how  to  dis- 
sect the  thing  she  delighted  in.  She  would  never  know 
that,  so  she  would  never  really  know  her  husband,  as 
Artois  might  learn  to  know  him,  even  had  already 
known  him.  She  would  never  fully  understand  the  tre- 
mendous barriers  set  up  between  people  by  the  different 
strains  of  blood  in  them,  the  stern  dividing  lines  that  are 
drawn  between  the  different  races  of  the  earth.  Her 
nature  told  her  that  love  can  conquer  all  things.  She 
was  too  enthusiastic  to  be  always  far-seeing. 

So  now,  while  Maurice  lay  beneath  the  tiny  light  in  the 
house  of  the  sirens  and  was  shaken  by  the  wildness  of 
desire,  and  thought  of  a  mountain  pilgrimage  far  up 
towards  the  sun  with  Maddalena  in  his  arms,  she  sat 
by  Artois's  bed  and  smiled  to  herself  as  she  pictured 
the  house  of  the  priest,  watched  over  by  the  stars  of 
Sicily,  and  by  her  many  prayers.  Maurice  was  there,  she 
knew,  waiting  for  her  return,  longing  for  it  as  she  longed 
for  it.  Artois  turned  on  his  pillow  wearily,  saw  her, 
and  smiled. 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  here,"  he  whispered.  "But  I 
am  glad  you  are  here." 

218 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"And  I  am  glad,  I  am  thankful  I  am  here!"  she  said, 
truly. 

"If  there  is  a  God,"  he  said,  "He  will  bless  you  for 
this!" 

"Hush!     You  must  try  to  sleep." 

She  laid  her  hand  in  his. 

"God  has  blessed  me,"  she  thought,  "for  all  my  poor 
little  attempts  at  goodness,  how  far,  far  more  than  I 
deserve!" 

And  the  gratitude  within  her  was  almost  like  an 
ache,  like  a  beautiful  pain  of  the  heart. 

In  the  morning  Maurice  put  to  sea  with  Gaspare  and 
Salvatore.  He  knew  the  silvery  calm  of  dawn  on  a 
day  of  sirocco.  Everything  was  very  still,  in  a  warm 
and  heavy  stillness  of  silver  that  made  the  sweat  run 
down  at  the  least  movement  or  effort.  Masses  of  white, 
feathery  vapors  floated  low  in  the  sky  above  the  sea, 
concealing  the  flanks  of  the  mountains,  but  leaving 
their  summits  clear.  And  these  vapors,  hanging  like 
veils  with  tattered  edges,  created  a  strange  privacy 
upon  the  sea,  an  atmosphere  of  eternal  mysteries.  As 
the  boat  went  out  from  the  shore,  urged  by  the  power- 
ful arms  of  Salvatore,  its  occupants  were  silent.  The 
merriment  and  the  ardor  of  the  night,  the  passion  of 
cards  and  of  desire,  were  gone,  as  if  they  had  been 
sucked  up  into  the  smoky  wonder  of  the  clouds,  or 
sucked  down  into  the  silver  wonder  of  the  sea. 

Gaspare  looked  drowsy  and  less  happy  than  usual. 
He  had  not  yet  recovered  from  his  indignation  at  the 
success  of  Salvatore's  cheating,  and  Maurice,  who  had 
not  slept,  felt  the  bounding  life,  the  bounding  fire  of  his 
youth  held  in  check  as  by  the  action  of  a  spell.  The 
carelessness  of  excitement,  of  passion,  was  replaced  by 
another  carelessness  —  the  carelessness  of  dream.  It 
seemed  to  him  now  as  if  nothing  mattered  or  ever  could 
matter.  On  the  calm  silver  of  a  hushed  and  breathless 
sea,  beneath  dense  white  vapors  that  hid  the  sky,  he 
is  2I9 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

was  going  out  slowly,  almost  noiselessly,  to  a  fate  of 
which  he  knew  nothing,  to  a  quiet  emptiness,  to  a  region 
which  held  no  voices  to  call  him  this  way  or  that,  no 
hands  to  hold  him,  no  eyes  to  regard  him.  His  face 
was  damp  with  sweat.  He  leaned  over  the  gunwale 
and  trailed  his  hand  in  the  sea.  It  seemed  to  him  un- 
naturally warm.  He  glanced  up  at  the  clouds.  Heaven 
was  blotted  out.  Was  there  a  heaven  ?  Last  night  he 
had  thought  there  must  be — but  that  was  long  ago. 
Was  he  sad?  He  scarcely  knew.  He  was  dull,  as  if 
the  blood  in  him  had  run  almost  dry.  He  was  like  a 
sapless  tree.  Hermione  and  Maddalena  —  what  were 
they  ?  Shadows  rather  than  women.  He  looked  stead- 
ily at  the  sea.  Was  it  the  same  element  upon  which 
he  had  been  only  a  few  hours  ago  under  the  stars  with 
Maddalena?  He  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  the 
same.  Sirocco  had  him  fast,  sirocco  that  leaves  many 
Sicilians  unchanged,  unaffected,  but  that  binds  the  stran- 
ger with  cords  of  cotton  wool  which  keep  him  like  a  net 
of  steel. 

Gaspare  lay  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  buried 
his  face  in  his  arms,  and  gave  himself  again  to  sleep. 
Salvatore  looked  at  him,  and  then  at  Maurice,  and 
smiled  with  a  fine  irony. 

"He  thought  he  would  win,  signore." 

"  Cosa  ?"  said  Maurice,  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  voice. 

"He  thought  that  he  could  play  better  than  I,  sig- 
nore." 

Salvatore  closed  one  eye,  and  stuck  his  tongue  a  little 
out  of  the  left  side  of  his  mouth,  then  drew  it  in  with  a 
clicking  noise. 

"  No  one  gets  the  better  of  me,"  he  said.  " They  may 
try.  Many  have  tried,  but  in  the  end — 

He  shook  his  head,  took  his  right  hand  from  the  oar 
and  flapped  it  up  and  down,  then  brought  it  downward 
with  force,  as  if  beating  some  one,  or  something,  to  his 
feet. 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"I  see,"  Maurice  said,  dully.     "I  see." 

He  thought  to  himself  that  he  had  been  cleverer  than 
Salvatore  the  preceding  night,  but  he  felt  no  sense  of 
triumph.  He  had  divined  the  fisherman's  passion  and 
turned  it  to  his  purpose.  But  what  of  that  ?  Let  the 
man  rejoice,  if  he  could,  in  this  dream.  Let  all  men 
do  what  they  wished  to  do  so  long  as  he  could  be  un- 
disturbed. He  looked  again  at  the  sea,  dropped  his 
hand  into  it  once  more. 

"Shall  I  let  down  a  line,  signore?" 

Salvatore's  keen  eyes  were  upon  him.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"Not  yet.     I—"     He  hesitated. 

The  still  silver  of  the  sea  drew  him.  He  touched  his 
forehead  with  his  hand  and  felt  the  dampness  on  it. 

"I'm  going  in,"  he  said. 

"Can  you  swim,  signore?" 

"Yes,  like  a  fish.  Don't  follow  me  with  the  boat. 
Just  let  me  swim  out  and  come  back.  If  I  want  you 
I'll  call.  But  don't  follow  me." 

Salvatore  nodded  appreciatively.  He  liked  a  good 
swimmer,  a  real  man  of  the  sea. 

"And  don't  wake  Gaspare,  or  he'll  be  after  me." 

"Va  bene!" 

Maurice  stripped  off  his  clothes,  all  the  time  looking 
at  the  sea.  Then  he  sat  down  on  the  gunwale  of  the 
boat  with  his  feet  in  the  water.  Salvatore  had  stopped 
rowing.  Gaspare  still  slept. 

It  was  curious  to  be  going  to  give  one's  self  to  this 
silent  silver  thing  that  waited  so  calmly  for  the  gift. 
He  felt  a  sort  of  dull  voluptuousness  stealing  over  him 
as  he  stared  at  the  water.  He  wanted  to  get  away 
from  his  companions,  from  the  boat,  to  be  quite  alone 
with  sirocco. 

"Addio  Salvatore!"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"A  rivederci,  signore." 

He  let  himself  down  slowly  into  the  water,  feet  fore- 

221 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

most,  and  swam  slowly  away  into  the  dream  that  lay 
before  him. 

Even  now  that  he  was  in  it  the  water  felt  strangely 
warm.  He  had  not  let  his  head  go  under,  and  the 
sweat  was  still  on  his  face.  The  boat  lay  behind 
him.  He  did  not  think  of  it.  He  had  forgotten  it. 
He  felt  himself  to  be  alone,  utterly  alone  with  the 
sea. 

He  had  always  loved  the  sea,  but  in  a  boyish,  wholly 
natural  way,  as  a  delightful  element,  health-giving, 
pleasure-giving,  associating  it  with  holiday  times,  with 
bathing,  fishing,  boating,  with  sails  on  moonlight  nights, 
with  yacht-races  about  the  Isle  of  Wight  in  the  com- 
pany of  gay  comrades.  This  sea  of  Sicily  seemed  dif- 
ferent to  him  to-day  from  other  seas,  more  mysterious 
and  more  fascinating,  a  sea  of  sirens  about  a  Sirens'  Isle. 
Mechanically  he  swam  through  it,  scarcely  moving  his 
arms,  with  his  chin  low  in  the  water — out  towards  the 
horizon-line. 

He  was  swimming  towards  Africa. 

Presently  that  thought  came  into  his  mind,  that  he 
was  swimming  towards  Africa  and  Hermione,  and  away 
from  Maddalena.  It  seemed  to  him,  then,  as  if  the  two 
women  on  the  opposite  shores  of  this  sea  must  know, 
Hermione  that  he  was  coming  to  her,  Maddalena  that 
he  was  abandoning  her,  and  he  began  to  think  of  them 
both  as  intent  upon  his  journey,  the  one  feeling  him 
approach,  the  other  feeling  him  recede.  He  swam  more 
slowly.  A  curious  melancholy  had  overtaken  him,  a 
deep  depression  of  the  spirit,  such  as  often  alternates  in 
the  Sicilian  character  with  the  lively  gayety  that  is  sent 
down  upon  its  children  by  the  sun.  This  lonely  progress 
in  the  sea  was  prophetic.  He  must  leave  Maddalena. 
His  friendship  with  her  must  come  to  an  end,  and  soon. 
Hermione  would  return,  and  then,  in  no  long  time,  they 
would  leave  the  Casa  del  Prete  and  go  back  to  England. 
They  would  settle  down  somewhere,  probably  in  London, 
222 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

and  he  would  take  up  his  work  with  his  father,  and  the 
Sicilian  dream  would  be  over. 

The  vapors  that  hid  the  sky  seemed  to  drop  a  little 
lower  down  towards  the  sea,  as  if  they  were  going  to 
enclose  him. 

The  Sicilian  dream  would  be  over.  Was  that  possi- 
ble ?  He  felt  as  if  the  earth  of  Sicily  would  not  let  him 
go,  as  if,  should  the  earth  resign  him,  the  sea  of  Sicily 
would  keep  him.  He  dwelt  on  this  last  fancy,  this  keep- 
ing of  him  by  the  sea.  That  would  be  strange,  a  quiet 
end  to  all  things.  Never  before  had  he  consciously  con- 
templated his  own  death.  The  deep  melancholy  poured 
into  him  by  sirocco  caused  him  to  do  so  now.  Almost 
voluptuously  he  thought  of  death,  a  death  in  the  sea  of 
Sicily  near  the  rocks  of  the  isle  of  the  sirens.  The  light 
would  be  kindled  in  the  sirens'  house  and  his  eyes  would 
not  see  it.  They  would  be  closed  by  the  cold  fingers  of 
the  sea.  And  Maddalena  ?  The  first  time  she  had  seen 
him  she  had  seen  him  sinking  in  the  sea.  How  strange 
if  it  should  be  so  at  the  end,  if  the  last  time  she  saw  him 
she  saw  him  sinking  in  the  sea.  She  had  cried  out. 
Would  she  cry  out  again  or  would  she  keep  silence? 
He  wondered.  For  a  moment  he  felt  as  if  it  were  or- 
dained that  thus  he  should  die,  and  he  let  his  body  sink 
in  the  water,  throwing  up  his  hands.  He  went  down, 
very  far  down,  but  he  felt  that  Maddalena's  eyes  fol- 
lowed him  and  that  in  them  he  saw  terrors  enthroned. 

Gaspare  stirred  in  the  boat,  lifted  his  head  from  his 
arms  and  looked  sleepily  around  him.  He  saw  Salva- 
tore  lighting  a  pipe,  bending  forward  over  a  spluttering 
match  which  he  held  in  a  cage  made  of  his  joined  hands. 
He  glanced  away  from  him  still  sleepily,  seeking  the 
padrone,  but  he  saw  only  the  empty  seats  of  the  boat, 
the  oars,  the  coiled-up  nets,  and  lines  for  the  fish. 

"Dove — ?"  he  began. 

He  sat  up,  stared  wildly  round. 

"Dov'e  il  padrone?"  he  cried  out,  shrilly. 
223 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

Salvatore  started  and  dropped  the  match.  Gaspare 
sprang  at  him. 

"  Dov'e  il  padrone  ?     Dov'e  il  padrone  ?" 

"Sangue  di — "  began  Salvatore. 

But  the  oath  died  upon  his  lips.  His  keen  eyes  had 
swept  the  sea  and  perceived  that  it  was  empty.  From 
its  silver  the  black  dot  which  he  had  been  admiringly 
watching  had  disappeared.  Gaspare  had  waked,  had 
asked  his  fierce  question  just  as  Maurice  threw  up  his 
hands  and  sank  down  in  his  travesty  of  death. 

"  He  was  there!  Madonna!  He  was  there  swimming 
a  moment  ago!"  exclaimed  Salvatore. 

As  he  spoke  he  seized  the  oars,  and  with  furious 
strokes  propelled  the  boat  in  the  direction  Maurice  had 
taken.  But  Gaspare  would  not  wait.  His  instinct  for- 
bade him  to  remain  inactive. 

"May  the  Madonna  turn  her  face  from  thee  in  the 
hour  of  thy  death!"  he  yelled  at  Salvatore. 

Then,  with  all  his  clothes  on,  he  went  over  the  side 
into  the  sea. 

Maurice  was  an  accomplished  swimmer,  and  had  ar- 
dently practised  swimming  under  water  when  he  was  a 
boy.  He  could  hold  his  breath  for  an  exceptionally  long 
time,  and  now  he  strove  to  beat  all  his  previous  records. 
With  a  few  strokes  he  came  up  from  the  depths  of  the 
sea  towards  the  surface,  then  began  swimming  under 
water,  swimming  vigorously,  though  in  what  direction 
he  knew  not.  At  last  he  felt  the  imperative  need  of  air, 
and,  coming  up  into  the  light  again,  he  gasped,  shook 
his  head,  lifted  his  eyelids  that  were  heavy  with  the 
pressure  of  the  water,  heard  a  shrill  cry,  and  felt  a  hand 
grasp  him  fiercely. 

' '  Signorino !     Signorino ! ' ' 

"Gaspare!"  he  gulped. 

He  had  not  fully  drawn  breath  yet. 
Madonna !     Madonna ! ' ' 

The  hand  still  held  him.     The  fingers  were  dug  into 
224 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

his  flesh.  Then  he  heard  a  shout,  and  the  boat  came 
up  with  Salvatore  leaning  over  its  side,  glaring  down  at 
him  with  fierce  anxiety.  He  grasped  the  gunwale  with 
both  hands.  Gaspare  trod  water,  caught  him  by  the 
legs,  and  violently  assisted  him  upward.  He  tumbled 
over  the  side  into  the  boat.  Gaspare  came  after  him, 
sank  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  caught  him  by 
the  arms,  stared  into  his  face,  saw  him  smiling. 

"Sta  bene  Lei?"  he  cried.     "Sta  bene?" 

"Benissimo." 

The  boy  let  go  of  him  and,  still  staring  at  him,  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears  that  seemed  almost  angry. 

"Gaspare!     What  is  it?     What's  the  matter?" 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  touch  the  boy's  dripping 
clothes. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Niente!  Niente!"  said  Gaspare,  between  violent 
sobs.  "Mamma  mia!  Mamma  mia!" 

He  threw  himself  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and 
wept  stormily,  without  shame,  without  any  attempt  to 
check  or  conceal  his  emotion.  As  in  the  tarantella  he 
had  given  himself  up  utterly  to  joy,  so  now  he  gave 
himself  up  utterly  to  something  that  seemed  like  de- 
spair. He  cried  loudly.  His  whole  body  shook.  The 
sea-water  ran  down  from  his  matted  hair  and  mingled 
with  the  tears  that  rushed  over  his  brown  cheeks. 

"What  is  it?"  Maurice  asked  of  Salvatore. 

"He  thought  the  sea  had  taken  you,  signore." 

"That  was  it?     Gaspare — 

"Let  him  alone.  Per  Dio,  signore,  you  gave  me  a 
fright,  too." 

"I  was  only  swimming  under  water." 

He  looked  at  Gaspare.  He  longed  to  do  something 
to  comfort  him,  but  he  realized  that  such  violence  could 
not  be  checked  by  anything.  It  must  wear  itself  out. 

"And  he  thought  I  was  dead!" 

"Per  Dio!     And  if  you  had  been!" 
225 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  wrinkled  up  his  face  and  spat. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Has  he  got  a  knife  on  him?" 

He  threw  out  his  hand  towards  Gaspare. 

"I  don't  know  to-day.     He  generally  has." 

"I  should  have  had  it  in  me  by  now,"  said  Salvatore. 

And  he  smiled  at  the  weeping  boy  almost  sweetly,  as 
if  he  could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  caress  such  a 
murderer. 

"Row  in  to  land,"  Maurice  said. 

He  began  to  put  on  his  clothes.  Salvatore  turned 
the  boat  round  and  they  drew  near  to  the  rocks.  The 
vapors  were  lifting  now,  gathering  themselves  up  to 
reveal  the  blue  of  the  sky,  but  the  sea  was  still  gray  and 
mysterious,  and  the  land  looked  like  a  land  in  a  dream. 
Presently  Gaspare  put  his  fists  to  his  eyes,  lifted  his 
head,  and  sat  up.  He  looked  at  his  master  gloomily,  as 
if  in  rebuke,  and  under  this  glance  Maurice  began  to  feel 
guilty,  as  if  he  had  done  something  wrong  in  yielding 
to  his  strange  impulses  in  the  sea. 

"I  was  only  swimming  under  water,  Gaspare,"  he 
said,  apologetically. 

The  boy  said  nothing. 

"  I  know  now,"  continued  Maurice,  "that  I  shall  never 
come  to  any  harm  with  you  to  look  after  me." 

Still  Gaspare  said  nothing.  He  sat  there  on  the  floor 
of  the  boat  with  his  dripping  clothes  clinging  to  his  body, 
staring  before  him  as  if  he  were  too  deeply  immersed  in 
gloomy  thoughts  to  hear  what  was  being  said  to  him. 

"Gaspare!"  Maurice  exclaimed,  moved  by  a  sudden 
impulse.  "Do  you  think  you  would  be  very  unhappy 
away  from  your  'paese'  ?" 

Gaspare  shifted  forward  suddenly.  A  light  gleamed 
in  his  eyes. 

"D'you  think  you  could  be  happy  with  me  in  Eng- 
land?" 

He  smiled. 

226 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Si,  signore!" 

"When  we  have  to  go  away  from  Sicily  I  shall  ask 
the  signora  to  let  me  take  you  with  us." 

Gaspare  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  at  Salvatore, 
and  his  wet  face  was  like  a  song  of  pride  and  triumph. 


XIV 

THAT  day,  ere  he  started  with  Gaspare  for  the  house 
of  the  priest,  Maurice  made  a  promise  to  Maddalena.  He 
pledged  himself  to  go  with  her  and  her  father  to  the 
great  fair  of  San  Felice,  which  takes  place  annually  in 
the  early  days  of  June,  when  the  throng  of  tourists  has 
departed,  and  the  long  heats  of  the  summer  have  not 
yet  fully  set  in.  He  gave  this  promise  in  the  presence 
of  Salvatore  and  Gaspare,  and  while  he  did  so  he  was 
making  up  his  mind  to  something.  That  day  at  the  fair 
should  be  the  day  of  his  farewell  to  Maddalena.  Her- 
mione  must  surely  be  coming  back  in  June.  It  was  im- 
possible that  she  could  remain  in  Kairouan  later.  The 
fury  of  the  African  summer  would  force  her  to  leave 
the  sacred  city,  her  mission  of  salvation  either  accom- 
plished or  rendered  forever  futile  by  the  death  of  her 
friend.  And  then,  when  Hermione  came,  within  a  short 
time  no  doubt  they  would  start  for  England,  taking 
Gaspare  with  them.  For  Maurice  really  meant  to  keep 
the  boy  in  their  service.  After  the  strange  scene  of  the 
morning  he  felt  as  if  Gaspare  were  one  of  the  family,  a 
retainer  with  whose  devoted  protection  he  could  never 
dispense.  Hermione,  he  was  sure,  would  not  object. 

Hermione  would  not  object.  As  he  thought  that, 
Maurice  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  such  as  sometimes 
moves  a  child,  upon  whom  a  parent  or  guardian  has  laid 
a  gently  restraining  hand,  violently  to  shrug  his  shoulders 
and  twist  his  body  in  the  effort  to  get  away  and  run 
wild  in  freedom.  He  knew  how  utterly  unreasonable 
and  contemptible  his  sensation  was,  yet  he  had  it.  The 
228 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

sun  had  bred  in  him  not  merely  a  passion  for  complete 
personal  liberty,  but  for  something  more,  for  lawless- 
ness. For  a  moment  he  envied  Gaspare,  the  peasant 
boy,  whose  ardent  youth  was  burdened  with  so  few 
duties  to  society,  with  so  few  obligations. 

What  was  expected  of  Gaspare  ?  Only  a  willing 
service,  well  paid,  which  he  could  leave  forever  at  any 
moment  he  pleased.  To  his  family  he  must,  no  doubt, 
give  some  of  his  earnings,  but  in  return  he  was  looked  up 
to  by  all,  even  by  his  father,  as  a  little  god.  And  in 
everything  else  was  not  he  free,  wonderfully  free  in  this 
island  of  the  south,  able  to  be  careless,  unrestrained, 
wild  as  a  young  hawk,  yet  to  remain  uncondemned,  un- 
wondered  at  ? 

And  he — Maurice? 

He  thought  of  Hermione's  ardent  and  tenderly  ob- 
servant eyes  with  a  sort  of  terror.  If  she  could  know 
or  even  suspect  his  feelings  of  the  previous  night,  what 
a  tragedy  he  would  be  at  once  involved  in!  The  very 
splendor  of  Hermione's  nature,  the  generous  nobility 
of  her  character,  would  make  that  tragedy  the  more 
poignant.  She  felt  with  such  intensity,  she  thought 
she  had  so  much.  Careless  though  his  own  nature  was, 
doubly  careless  here  in  Sicily,  Maurice  almost  sickened 
at  the  idea  of  her  ever  suspecting  the  truth,  that  he  was 
capable  of  being  strongly  drawn  towards  a  girl  like 
Maddalena,  that  he  could  feel  as  if  a  peasant  who  could 
neither  read  nor  write  caught  at  something  within  him 
that  was  like  the  essence  of  his  life,  like  the  core  of  that 
by  which  he  enjoyed,  suffered,  desired. 

But,  of  course,  she  would  never  suspect.  And  he 
laughed  at  himself,  and  made  the  promise  about  the 
fair,  and,  having  made  it  and  his  resolution  in  regard 
to  it,  almost  violently  resolved  to  take  no  thought  for 
the  morrow,  but  to  live  carelessly  and  with  gayety  the 
days  that  lay  before  him,  the  few  more  days  of  his  utter 
freedom  in  Sicily. 

229 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

After  all,  he  was  doing  no  wrong.  He  had  lived  and 
was  going  to  live  innocently.  And  now  that  he  realized 
things,  realized  himself,  he  would  be  reasonable.  He 
would  be  careless,  gay — yes,  but  not  reckless,  not  utterly 
reckless  as  he  felt  inclined  to  be. 

"What  day  of  June  is  the  fair?"  he  asked,  looking  at 
Maddalena. 

"The  nth  of  June,  signore,"  said  Salvatore.  "There- 
will  be  many  donkeys  there — good  donkeys." 

Gaspare  began  to  look  fierce. 

"I  think  of  buying  a  donkey,"  added  Salvatore, 
carelessly,  with  his  small,  shrewd  eyes  fixed  upon  Mau- 
rice's face. 

Gaspare  muttered  something  unintelligible. 

"How  much  do  they  cost?"  said  Maurice. 

"For  a  hundred  lire  you  can  get  a  very  good  donkey. 
It  would  be  useful  to  Maddalena.  She  could  go  to  the 
village  sometimes  then — she  could  go  to  Marechiaro  to 
gossip  with  the  neighbors." 

"Has  Maddalena  broken  her  legs — Madonna!"  burst 
forth  Gaspare. 

"Come  along,  Gaspare!"  said  Maurice,  hastily. 

He  bade  good-bye  to  the  fisherman  and  his  daughter, 
and  set  off  with  Gaspare  through  the  trees. 

"Be  nice  to  Salvatore,"  said  Maurice,  as  they  went 
down  towards  the  rocky  wall. 

"But  he  wants  to  make  you  give  him  a  donkey,  sig- 
norino.  You  do  not  know  him.  When  he  is  with  you 
at  the  fair  he  will — " 

"Never  mind.  I  say,  Gaspare,  I  want — I  want  that 
day  at  the  fair  to  be  a  real  festa.  Don't  let's  have  any 
row  on  that  day." 

Gaspare  looked  at  him  with  surprised,  inquiring  eyes, 
as  if  struck  by  his  serious  voice,  by  the  insisting  pressure 
in  it. 

"Why  that  day  specially,  signorino?"  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

230 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Oh,  well — it  will  be  my  last  day  of — I  mean  that 
the  signora  will  be  coming  back  from  Africa  by  then, 
and  we  shall — " 

"Si,  signore?" 

"We  sha'n't  be  able  to  run  quite  so  wild  as  we  do 
now,  you  see.  And,  besides,  we  shall  be  going  to  Eng- 
land very  soon  then." 

Gaspare's  face  lighted  up. 

"Shall  I  see  London,  signorino?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice. 

He  felt  a  sickness  at  his  heart. 

"I  should  like  to  live  in  London  always,"  said  Gas- 
pare, excitedly. 

"In  London!  You  don't  know  it.  In  London  you 
will  scarcely  ever  see  the  sun." 

"Aren't  there  theatres  in  London,  signorino?" 

"Theatres?  Yes,  of  course.  But  there  is  no  sea, 
Gaspare,  there  are  no  mountains." 

"Are  there  many  soldiers?  Are  there  beautiful 
women?" 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  soldiers  and  women." 

"I  should  like  always  to  live  in  London,"  repeated 
Gaspare,  firmly. 

"Well — perhaps  you  will.  But — remember — we  are 
all  to  be  happy  at  the  fair  of  San  Felice." 

"Si,  signore.  But  be  careful,  or  Salvatore  will  make 
you  buy  him  a  donkey.  He  had  a  wine-shop  once,  long 
ago,  in  Marechiaro,  and  the  wine — Per  Dio,  it  was  always 
vino  battezzato!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Salvatore  always  put  water  in  it.  He  is  cattivo — 
and  when  he  is  angry — 

"I  know.  You  told  me.  But  it  doesn't  matter.  We 
shall  soon  be  going  away,  and  then  we  sha'n't  see  him 
any  more." 

"Signorino?" 

"Well?" 

231 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"You — do  you  want  to  stay  here  always?" 

"I  like  being  here." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  stay?" 

For  once  Maurice  felt  as  if  he  could  not  meet  the  boy's 
great,  steady  eyes  frankly.  He  looked  away. 

"I  like  the  sun,"  he  answered.  "I  love  it!  I  should 
like  to  live  in  the  sunshine  forever." 

"And  I  should  like  to  live  always  in  London,"  re- 
iterated Gaspare.  "You  want  to  live  here  because  you 
have  always  been  in  London,  and  I  want  to  live  in 
London  because  I  have  always  been  here.  Ecco!" 

Maurice  tried  to  laugh. 

"Perhaps  that  is  it.  We  wish  for  what  we  can't 
have.  Dio  mio!" 

He  threw  out  his  arms. 

"But,  anyhow,  I've  not  done  with  Sicily  yet!  Come 
on,  Gaspare!  Now  for  the  rocks!  Ciao!  Ciao!  Ciao! 
Morettina  bella  ciao!" 

He  burst  out  into  a  song,  but  his  voice  hardly  rang 
true,  and  Gaspare  looked  at  him  again  with  a  keen  in- 
quiry. 

Artois  was  not  yet  destined  to  die.  He  said  that 
Hermione  would  not  let  him  die,  that  with  her  by  his 
side  it  was  useless  for  Death  to  approach  him,  to  de- 
sire him,  to  claim  him.  Perhaps  her  courage  gave  to 
him  the  will  to  struggle  against  his  enemy.  The  French 
doctor,  deeply,  almost  sentimentally  interested  in  the 
ardent  woman  who  spoke  his  language  with  perfection 
and  carried  out  such  instructions  of  his  as  she  con- 
sidered sensible,  with  delicate  care  and  strong  thorough- 
ness, thought  and  said  so. 

"But  for  madame,"  he  said  to  Artois,  "you  would 
have  died,  monsieur.  And  why?  Because  till  she 
came  you  had  not  the  will  to  live.  And  it  is  the  will 
to  live  that  assists  the  doctor." 

"I  cannot  be  so  ungallant  as  to  die  now,"  Artois  re- 
232 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

plied,  with  a  feeble  but  not  sad  smile.  "Were  I  to  do 
so,  madame  would  think  me  ungrateful.  No,  I  shall 
live.  I  feel  now  that  I  am  going  to  live." 

And,  in  fact,  from  the  night  of  Maurice's  visit  with 
Gaspare  to  the  house  of  the  sirens  he  began  to  get  bet- 
ter. The  inflammation  abated,  the  temperature  fell  till 
it  was  normal,  the  agony  died  away  gradually  from  the 
tormented  body,  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  the  strength 
that  had  ebbed  began  to  return.  One  day,  when  the 
doctor  said  that  there  was  no  more  danger  of  any  re- 
lapse, Artois  called  Hermione  and  told  her  that  now 
she  must  think  no  more  of  him,  but  of  herself;  that  she 
must  pack  up  her  trunk  and  go  back  to  her  husband. 

"You  have  saved  me,  and  I  have  killed  your  honey- 
moon," he  said,  rather  sadly.  "That  will  always  be 
a  regret  in  my  life.  But,  now  go,  my  dear  friend,  and 
try  to  assuage  your  husband's  wrath  against  me.  How 
he  must  hate  me!" 

"Why,  Emile?" 

"Are  you  really  a  woman?  Yes,  I  know  that.  No 
man  could  have  tended  me  as  you  have.  Yet,  being 
a  woman,  how  can  you  ask  that  question?" 

"Maurice  understands.  He  is  blessedly  understand- 
ing." 

"  Don't  try  his  blessed  comprehension  of  you  and  of 
me  too  far.  You  must  go,  indeed." 

"I  will  go." 

A  shadow  that  he  tried  to  keep  back  flitted  across 
Artois's  pale  face,  over  which  the  unkempt  beard 
straggled  in  a  way  that  would  have  appalled  his  Pari- 
sian barber.  Hermione  saw  it. 

"I  will  go,"  she  repeated,  quietly,  "when  I  can  take 
you  with  me." 

"But — " 

"Hush!  You  are  not  tp  argue.  Haven't  you  an 
utter  contempt  for  those  who  do  things  by  halves? 
Well,  I  have.  When  you  can  travel  we'll  go  together." 
233 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  Where  ?" 

"To  Sicily.  It  will  be  hot  there,  but  after  this  it 
will  seem  cool  as  the  Garden  of  Eden  under  those  trees 
where — but  you  remember!  And  there  is  always  the 
breeze  from  the  sea.  And  then  from  there,  very  soon, 
you  can  get  a  ship  from  Messina  and  go  back  to  France, 
to  Marseilles.  Don't  talk,  Emile.  I  am  writing  to-night 
to  tell  Maurice." 

And  she  left  the  room  with  quick  softness. 

Artois  did  not  protest.  He  told  himself  that  he  had 
not  the  strength  to  struggle  against  the  tenderness 
that  surrounded  him,  that  made  it  sweet  to  return  to 
life.  But  he  wondered  silently  how  Maurice  would  re- 
ceive him,  how  the  dancing  faun  was  bearing,  would 
bear,  this  interference  with  his  new  happiness. 

"When  I  am  in  Sicily  I  shall  see  at  once,  I  shall 
know,"  he  thought.  "But  till  then — " 

And  he  gave  up  the  faint  attempt  to  analyze  the  pos- 
sible feelings  of  another,  and  sank  again  into  the  curious 
peace  of  convalescence. 

And  Hermione  wrote  to  her  husband,  telling  him  of 
her  plan,  calling  upon  him  with  the  fearless  enthusiasm 
that  was  characteristic  of  her  to  welcome  it  and  to  re- 
joice, with  her,  in  Artois's  returning  health  and  speedy 
presence  in  Sicily. 

Maurice  read  this  letter  on  the  terrace  alone.  Gas- 
pare had  gone  down  on  the  donkey  to  Marechiaro  to 
buy  a  bottle  of  Marsala,  which  Lucrezia  demanded  for 
the  making  of  a  zampaglione,  and  Lucrezia  was  upon  the 
mountain  -  side  spreading  linen  to  dry  in  the  sun.  It 
was  nearly  the  end  of  May  now,  and  the  trees  in  the 
ravine  were  thick  with  all  their  leaves.  The  stream 
that  ran  down  through  the  shadows  towards  the  sea 
was  a  tiny  trickle  of  water,  and  the  long,  black  snakes 
were  coming  boldly  forth  from  their  winter  hiding- 
places  to  sun  themselves  among  the  bowlders  that 
skirted  the  mountain  tracks. 
234 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  can't  tell  for  certain,"  Hermione  wrote,  "how  soon 
we  shall  arrive,  but  Emile  is  picking  up  strength  every 
day,  and  I  think,  I  pray,  it  may  not  be  long.  I  dare 
to  hope  that  we  shall  be  with  you  about  the  second 
week  of  June.  Oh,  Maurice,  something  in  me  is  almost 
mad  with  joy,  is  like  Gaspare  dancing  the  tarantella, 
when  I  think  of  coming  up  the  mountain-side  again 
with  you  as  I  came  that  first  day,  that  first  day  of  my 
real  life.  Tell  Sebastiano  he  must  play  the  'Pastorale' 
to  welcome  me.  And  you — but  I  seem  to  feel  your 
dear  welcome  here,  to  feel  your  hands  holding  mine,  to 
see  your  eyes  looking  at  me  like  Sicily.  Isn't  it  strange  ? 
I  feel  out  here  in  Africa  as  if  you  were  Sicily.  But  you 
are,  indeed,  for  me.  You  are  Sicily,  you  are  the  sun,  you 
are  everything  that  means  joy  to  me,  that  means  music, 
that  means  hope  and  peace.  Buon  riposo,  my  dearest 
one.  Can  you  feel — can  you — how  happy  I  am  to-night  ?" 

The  second  week  in  June.'  Maurice  stood  holding  the 
letter  in  his  hand.  The  fair  of  San  Felice  would  take 
place  during  the  second  week  in  June.  That  was  what 
he  was  thinking,  not  of  Artois's  convalescence,  not  of 
his  coming  to  Sicily.  If  Hermione  arrived  before 
June  nth,  could  he  go  to  the  fair  with  Maddalena?  He 
might  go,  of  course.  He  might  tell  Hermione.  She 
would  say  "Go!"  She  believed  in  him  and  had  never 
tried  to  curb  his  freedom.  A  less  suspicious  woman 
than  she  was  had  surely  never  lived.  But  if  she  were 
in  Sicily,  if  he  knew  that  she  was  there  in  the  house  of 
the  priest,  waiting  to  welcome  him  at  night  when  he 
came  back  from  the  fair,  it  would — it  would —  He  laid 
the  letter  down.  There  was  a  burning  heat  of  impa- 
tience, of  anxiety,  within  him.  Now  that  he  had  re- 
ceived this  letter  he  understood  with  what  intensity 
he  had  been  looking  forward  to  this  day  at  the  fair,  to 
this  last  festa  of  his  Sicilian  life. 

"  Perhaps  they  will  not  come  so  soon!"  he  said  to  him- 
self.    "Perhaps  they  will  not  be  here." 
16  235 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

And  then  he  began  to  think  of  Artois,  to  realize  the 
fact  that  he  was  coming  with  Hermione,  that  he  would 
be  part  of  the  final  remnant  of  these  Sicilian  days. 

His  feeling  towards  Artois  in  London  had  been  sym- 
pathetic, even  almost  reverential.  He  had  looked  at 
him  as  if  through  Hermione's  eyes,  had  regarded  him 
with  a  sort  of  boyish  reverence.  Hermione  had  said  that 
Artois  was  a  great  man,  and  Maurice  had  felt  that  he 
was  a  great  man,  had  mentally  sat  at  his  feet.  Perhaps 
in  London  he  would  be  ready  to  sit  at  his  feet  again. 
But  was  he  ready  to  sit  at  his  feet  here  in  Sicily?  As 
he  thought  of  Artois's  penetrating  eyes  and  cool,  in- 
tellectual face,  of  his  air  of  authority,  of  his  close  in- 
timacy with  Hermione,  he  felt  almost  afraid  of  him. 
He  did  not  want  Artois  to  come  here  to  Sicily.  He 
hated  his  coming.  He  almost  dreaded  it  as  the  com- 
ing of  a  spy.  The  presence  of  Artois  would  surely  take 
away  all  the  savor  of  this  wild,  free  life,  would  import 
into  it  an  element  of  the  library,  of  the  shut  room,  of 
that  intellectual  existence  which  Maurice  was  learning  to 
think  of  as  almost  hateful. 

And  Hermione  called  upon  him  to  rejoice  with  her 
over  the  fact  that  Artois  would  be  able  to  accompany 
her.  How  she  misunderstood  him!  Good  God!  how 
she  misunderstood  him!  It  seemed  really  as  if  she  be- 
lieved that  his  mind  was  cast  in  precisely  the  same 
mould  as  her  own,  as  if  she  thought  that  because  she 
and  he  were  married  they  must  think  and  feel  always 
alike.  How  absurd  that  was,  and  how  impossible! 

A  sense  of  being  near  a  prison  door  came  upon  him. 
He  threw  Hermione's  letter  onto  the  writing-table,  and 
went  out  into  the  sun. 

When  Gaspare  returned  that  evening  Maurice  told  him 
the  news  from  Africa.  The  boy's  face  lit  up. 

"Oh,  then  shall  we  go  to  London?"  he  said. 

"Why  not  ?"  Maurice  exclaimed,  almost  violently.  "  It 
will  all  be  different!  Yes,  we  had  better  go  to  London!" 
236 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Signorino." 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Gaspare?" 

"You  do  not  like  that  signore  to  come  here." 

"I— why  not?     Yes,  I—" 

"No,  signorino.  I  can  see  in  your  face  that  you  do 
not  like  it.  Your  face  got  quite  black  just  now.  But 
if  you  do  not  like  it  why  do  you  let  him  come?  You 
are  the  padrone  here." 

"You  don't  understand.  The  signore  is  a  friend  of 
mine." 

"But  you  said  he  was  the  friend  of  the  signora." 

"So  he  is.     He  is  the  friend  of  both  of  us." 

Gaspare  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  His  mind  was 
working  busily.  At  last  he  said: 

"Then  Maddalena — when  the  signora  comes  will  she 
be  the  friend  of  the  signora,  as  well  as  your  friend  ?" 

"Maddalena — that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"But  Maddalena  is  your  friend!" 

"That's  quite  different." 

"I  do  not  understand  how  it  is  in  England,"  Gas- 
pare said,  gravely.  "But" — and  he  nodded  his  head 
wisely  and  spread  out  his  hands — "I  understand  many 
things,  signorino,  perhaps  more  than  you  think.  You 
do  not  want  the  signore  to  come.  You  are  angry  at 
his  coming." 

"He  is  a  very  kind  signore,"  said  Maurice,  hastily. 
"And  he  can  speak  dialetto." 

Gaspare  smiled  and  shook  his  head  again.  But  he 
did  not  say  anything  more.  For  a  moment  Maurice  had 
an  impulse  to  speak  to  him  frankly,  to  admit  him  into 
the  intimacy  of  a  friend.  He  was  a  Sicilian,  although 
he  was  only  a  boy.  He  was  Sicilian  and  he  would  un- 
derstand. 

"Gaspare,"  he  began. 

"Si,  signore." 

"As  you  understand  so  much — " 

"Si,  signore?" 

237 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Perhaps  you — "  He  checked  himself,  realizing  that 
he  was  on  the  edge  of  doing  an  outrageous  thing.  "  You 
must  know  that  the  friends  of  the  signora  are  my  friends 
and  that  I  am  always  glad  to  welcome  them." 

"Va  bene,  signorino!     Va  bene!" 

The  boy  began  to  look  glum,  understanding  at  once 
that  he  was  being  played  with. 

"I  must  go  to  give  Tito  his  food." 

And  he  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  went  away 
round  the  corner  of  the  cottage,  whistling  the  tune  of 
the  "Canzone  di  Marechiaro." 

Maurice  began  to  feel  as  if  he  were  in  the  dark,  but 
as  if  he  were  being  watched  there.  He  wondered  how 
clearly  Gaspare  read  him,  how  much  he  knew.  And 
Artois?  When  he  came,  with  his  watchful  eyes,  there 
would  be  another  observer  of  the  Sicilian  change.  He 
did  not  much  mind  Gaspare,  but  he  would  hate  Artois. 
He  grew  hot  at  the  mere  thought  of  Artois  being  there 
with  him,  observing,  analyzing,  playing  the  literary 
man's  part  in  this  out-door  life  of  the  mountains  and  of 
the  sea. 

"I'm  not  a  specimen,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  I'm 
damned  if  I'll  be  treated  as  one!" 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  was  anticipating  that 
which  might  never  happen.  He  was  as  unreasonable 
as  a  boy  who  foresees  possible  interference  with  his 
pleasures. 

This  decision  of  Hermione  to  bring  with  her  to  Sicily 
Artois,  and  its  communication  to  Maurice,  pushed  him 
on  to  the  recklessness  which  he  had  previously  resolved 
to  hold  in  check.  Had  Hermione  been  returning  to 
him  alone  he  would  have  felt  that  a  gay  and  thought- 
less holiday  time  was  coming  to  an  end,  but  he  must 
have  felt,  too,  that  only  tenderness  and  strong  affection 
were  crossing  the  sea  from  Africa  to  bind  him  in  chains 
that  already  he  had  worn  with  happiness  and  peace. 
But  the  knowledge  that  with  Hermione  was  coming 
238 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Artois  gave  to  him  a  definite  vision  of  something  that 
was  like  a  cage.  Without  consciously  saying  it  to  him- 
self, he  had  in  London  been  vaguely  aware  of  Artois 's 
coldness  of  feeling  towards  him.  Had  any  one  spoken 
of  it  to  him  he  would  probably  have  denied  that  this 
was  so.  There  are  hidden  things  in  a  man  that  he  him- 
self does  not  say  to  himself  that  he  knows  of.  But  Mau- 
rice's vision  of  a  cage  was  conjured  up  by  Artois's  men- 
tal attitude  towards  him  in  London,  the  attitude  of  the 
observer  who  might,  in  certain  circumstances,  be  cruel, 
who  was  secretly  ready  to  be  cruel.  And,  anticipating 
the  unpleasant  probable,  he  threw  himself  with  the  great- 
er violence  into  the  enjoyment  of  his  few  more  days  of 
complete  liberty. 

He  wrote  to  Hermione,  expressing  as  naturally  as  he 
could  his  ready  acquiescence  in  her  project,  and  then 
gave  himself  up  to  the  light  -  heartedness  that  came 
with  the  flying  moments  of  these  last  days  of  emanci- 
pation in  the  sun.  His  mood  was  akin  to  the  mood  of 
the  rich  man,  "Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we 
die."  The  music,  he  knew,  must  presently  fail.  The 
tarantella  must  come  to  an  end.  Well,  then  he  would 
dance  with  his  whole  soul.  He  would  not  husband  his 
breath  nor  save  his  strength.  He  would  be  thought- 
less because  for  a  moment  he  had  thought  too  much, 
too  much  for  his  nature  of  the  dancing  faun  who  had 
been  given  for  a  brief  space  of  time  his  rightful  heritage. 

Each  day  now  he  went  down  to  the  sea. 

"How  hot  it  is!"  he  would  say  to  Gaspare.  "If  I 
don't  have  a  bath  I  shall  be  suffocated." 

"Si,  signore.     At  what  time  shall  we  go?" 

"After  the  siesta.  It  will  be  glorious  in  the  sea  to- 
day." 

"Si,  signore,  it  is  good  to  be  in  the  sea." 

The  boy  smiled,  at  last  would  sometimes  laugh.  He 
loved  his  padrona,  but  he  was  a  male  and  a  Sicilian. 
And  the  signora  had  gone  across  the  sea  to  her  friend. 
239 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

These  visits  to  the  sea  seemed  to  him  very  natural. 
He  would  have  done  the  same  as  his  padrone  in  similar 
circumstances  with  a  light  heart,  with  no  sense  of  doing 
wrong.  Only  sometimes  he  raised  a  warning  voice. 

"Signorino,"  he  would  say,  "do  not  forget  what  I 
have  told  you." 

"What,  Gaspare?" 

"Salvatore  is  birbante.     You  think  he  likes  you." 

"Why  shouldn't  he  like  me?" 

"You  are  a  forestiere.  To  him  you  are  as  nothing. 
But  he  likes  your  money." 

"Well,  then?  I  don't  care  whether  he  likes  me  or 
not.  What  does  it  matter?" 

"Be  careful,  signorino.  The  Sicilian  has  a  long  hand. 
Every  one  knows  that.  Even  the  Napoletano  knows 
that.  I  have  a  friend  who  was  a  soldier  at  Naples, 
and — " 

"Come,  now,  Gaspare!  What  reason  will  there  ever 
be  for  Salvatore  to  turn  against  me?" 

"Va  bene,  signorino,  va  bene!  But  Salvatore  is  a 
bad  man  when  he  thinks  any  one  has  tried  to  do  him  a 
wrong.  He  has  blood  in  his  eyes  then,  and  when  we 
Sicilians  see  through  blood  we  do  not  care  what  we  do — 
no,  not  if  all  the  world  is  looking  at  us." 

"I  shall  do  no  wrong  to  Salvatore.  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"Niente,  signorino,  niente!" 

"Stick  the  cloth  on  Tito,  and  put  something  in  the 
pannier.  Al  mare!  Al  mare!" 

The  boy's  warning  rang  in  deaf  ears.  For  Maurice 
really  meant  what  he  said.  He  was  reckless,  perhaps, 
but  he  was  going  to  wrong  no  one,  neither  Salvatore, 
nor  Hermione,  nor  Maddalena.  The  coming  of  Artois 
drove  him  into  the  arms  of  pleasure,  but  it  would  never 
drive  him  into  the  arms  of  sin.  For  it  was  surely  no 
sin  to  make  a  little  love  in  this  land  of  the  sun,  to  touch 
a  girl's  hand,  to  snatch  a  kiss  sometimes  from  the  soft 
240 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

lips  of  a  girl,  from  whom  he  would  never  ask  anything 
more,  whatever  leaping  desire  might  prompt  him. 

And  Salvatore  was  always  at  hand.  He  seldom  put  to 
sea  in  these  days  unless  Maurice  went  with  him  in  the 
boat.  His  greedy  eyes  shone  with  a  light  of  satisfaction 
when  he  saw  Tito  coming  along  the  dusty  white  road 
from  Isola  Bella,  and  at  night,  when  he  crossed  himself 
superstitiously  before  Maria  Addolorata,  he  murmured 
a  prayer  that  more  strangers  might  be  wafted  to  his 
"Paese,"  many  strangers  with  money  in  their  pockets 
and  folly  in  their  hearts.  Then  let  the  sea  be  empty 
of  fish  and  the  wind  of  the  storm  break  up  his  boat — 
it  would  not  matter.  He  would  still  live  well.  He 
might  even  at  the  last  have  money  in  the  bank  at 
Marechiaro,  houses  in  the  village,  a  larger  wine-shop  than 
Oreste  in  the  Corso. 

But  he  kept  his  small  eyes  wide  open  and  seldom  let 
Maddalena  be  long  alone  with  the  forestiere,  and  this 
supervision  began  to  irritate  Maurice,  to  make  him  at 
last  feel  hostile  to  Salvatore.  He  remembered  Gaspare's 
words  about  the  fisherman — "  To  him  you  are  as  nothing. 
But  he  likes  your  money" — and  a  longing  to  trick  this 
fox  of  the  sea,  who  wanted  to  take  all  and  make  no 
return,  came  to  him. 

"  Why  can  one  never  be  free  in  this  world  ?"  he  thought, 
almost  angrily.  "Why  must  there  always  be  some  one 
on  the  watch  to  see  what  one  is  doing,  to  interfere  with 
one's  pleasure?" 

He  began  presently  almost  to  hate  Salvatore,  who  evi- 
dently thought  that  Maurice  was  ready  to  wrong  him, 
and  who,  nevertheless,  grasped  greedily  at  every  soldo 
that  came  from  the  stranger's  pocket,  and  touted  per- 
petually for  more. 

His  attitude  was  hideous.     Maurice  pretended  not  to 

notice  it,  and  was  careful  to  keep  on  the  most  friendly 

possible  terms  with  him.     But,  while  they  acted  their 

parts,  the  secret  sense  of  enmity  grew  steadily  in  the 

241 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

two  men,  as  things  grow  in  the  sun.  When  Maurice 
saw  the  fisherman,  with  a  smiling,  bird's  face,  coming 
to  meet  him  as  he  climbed  up  through  the  trees  to  the 
sirens'  house,  he  sometimes  longed  to  strike  him.  And 
when  Maurice  went  away  with  Gaspare  in  the  night 
towards  the  white  road  where  Tito,  tied  to  a  stake,  was 
waiting  to  carry  the  empty  pannier  that  had  contained 
a  supper  up  the  mountain  to  the  house  of  the  priest, 
Salvatore  stood  handling  his  money,  and  murmuring: 

"Maledetto  straniero!  Madonna!  Ma  io  sono  piu 
birbante  di  Lei,  mille  volte  piu  birbante,  Dio  mio!" 

And  he  laughed  as  he  went  towards  the  sirens'  house. 
It  amused  him  to  think  that  a  stranger,  an  "Inglese," 
fancied  that  he  could  play  with  a  Sicilian,  who  had 
never  been  "worsted,"  even  by  one  of  his. own  country- 
men." 


XV 

MAURICE  had  begun  to  dread  the  arrival  of  the  post. 
Artois  was  rapidly  recovering  his  strength,  and  in  each 
of  her  letters  Hermione  wrote  with  a  more  glowing  cer- 
tainty of  her  speedy  return  to  Sicily,  bringing  the  in- 
valid with  her.  Would  they  come  before  June  nth, 
the  day  of  the  fair  ?  That  was  the  question  which  pre- 
occupied Maurice,  which  began  to  haunt  him,  and  set 
a  light  of  anxiety  in  his  eyes  when  he  saw  Antonino 
climbing  up  the  mountain  -  side  with  the  letter -bag 
slung  over  his  shoulder.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  not 
forego  this  last  festa.  When  it  was  over,  when  the 
lights  had  gone  out  in  the  houses  of  San  Felice,  and 
the  music  was  silent,  and  the  last  rocket  had  burst  in 
the  sky,  showering  down  its  sparks  towards  the  gaping 
faces  of  the  peasants,  he  would  be  ready  to  give  up  this 
free,  unintellectual  life,  this  life  in  which  his  youth  ran 
wild.  He  would  resign  himself  to  the  inevitable,  re- 
turn to  the  existence  in  which,  till  now,  he  had  found 
happiness,  and  try  to  find  it  there  once  more,  try  to 
forget  the  strange  voices  that  had  called  him,  the 
strange  impulses  that  had  prompted  him.  He  would 
go  back  to  his  old  self,  and  seek  pleasure  in  the  old 
paths,  where  he  walked  with  those  whom  society  would 
call  his  "equals,"  and  did  not  spend  his  days  with  men 
who  wrung  their  scant  livelihood  from  the  breast  of  the 
earth  and  from  the  breast  of  the  sea,  with  women  whose 
eyes,  perhaps,  were  full  of  flickering  fires,  but  who  had 
never  turned  the  leaves  of  a  printed  book,  or  traced  a 
word  upon  paper.  He  would  sit  again  at  the  feet  of 
243 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

people  who  were  cleverer  and  more  full  of  knowledge 
than  himself,  and  look  up  to  them  with  reverence. 

But  he  must  have  his  festa  first.  He  counted  upon 
that.  He  desired  that  so  strongly,  almost  so  fiercely, 
that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  be  thwarted,  as 
if,  should  fate  interfere  between  him  and  the  fulfilment 
of  this  longing,  he  might  do  something  almost  des- 
perate. He  looked  forward  to  the  fair  with  something 
of  the  eagerness  and  the  anticipation  of  a  child  ex- 
pectant of  strange  marvels,  of  wonderful  and  myste- 
rious happenings,  and  the  name  San  Felice  rang  in 
his  ears  with  a  music  that  was  magical,  suggesting 
curious  joys. 

He  often  talked  about  the  fair  to  Gaspare,  asking  him 
many  questions  which  the  boy  was  nothing  loath  to  an- 
swer. 

To  Gaspare  the  fair  of  San  Felice  was  the  great  event 
of  the  Sicilian  year.  He  had  only  been  to  it  twice;  the 
first  time  when  he  was  but  ten  years  old,  and  was 
taken  by  an  uncle  who  had  gone  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
South  America,  and  had  come  back  for  a  year  to  his 
native  land  to  spend  some  of  the  money  he  had  earned 
as  a  cook,  and  afterwards  as  a  restaurant  proprietor, 
in  Buenos  Ayres;  the  second  time  when  he  was  sixteen, 
and  had  succeeded  in  saving  up  a  little  of  the  money 
given  to  him  by  travellers  whom  he  had  accompanied 
as  a  guide  on  their  excursions.  And  these  two  days 
had  been  red-letter  days  in  his  life.  His  eyes  shone 
with  excitement  when  he  spoke  of  the  festivities  at  San 
Felice,  of  the  bands  of  music — there  were  three  "mu- 
sics" in  the  village;  of  the  village  beauties  who  saun- 
tered slowly  up  and  .down,  dressed  in  brocades  and 
adorned  with  jewels  which  had  been  hoarded  in  the 
family  chests  for  generations,  and  were  only  taken  out 
to  be  worn  at  the  fair  and  at  wedding-feasts;  of  the 
booths  where  all  the  desirable  things  of  the  world  were 
exposed  for  sale — rings,  watches,  chains,  looking-glasses, 
244 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

clocks  that  sang  and  chimed  with  bells  like  church 
towers,  yellow  shoes,  and  caps  of  all  colors,  handker- 
chiefs, and  shawls  with  fringes  that,  when  worn,  droop- 
ed almost  to  the  ground;  ballads  written  by  native 
poets,  relating  the  life  and  the  trial  of  Musolino,  the 
famous  brigand,  his  noble  address  to  his  captors,  and 
his  despair  when  he  was  condemned  to  eternal  confine- 
ment; and  the  adventures  of  Giuseppe  Moroni,  called 
"II  Niccheri"  (illetterato) ,  composed  in  eight  -  lined 
verses,  and  full  of  the  most  startling  and  passionate 
occurrences.  There  were  donkeys,  too — donkeys  from 
all  parts  of  Sicily,  mules  from  Girgenti,  decorated  with 
red-and-yellow  harness,  with  pyramids  of  plumes  and 
bells  upon  their  heads,  painted  carts  with  pictures  of 
the  miracles  of  the  saints  and  the  conquests  of  the 
Saracens,  turkeys  and  hens,  and  even  cages  containing 
yellow  birds  that  came  from  islands  far  away  and  that 
sang  with  the  sweetness  of  the  angels.  The  ristoranti 
were  crowded  with  people,  playing  cards  and  eating 
delicious  food,  and  outside  upon  the  pavements  were 
dozens  of  little  tables  at  which  you  could  sit,  drinking 
syrups  of  beautiful  hues  and  watching  at  your  ease  the 
marvels  of  the  show.  Here  came  boys  from  Naples  to 
sing  and  dance,  peddlers  with  shining  knives  and  elegant 
walking-sticks  for  sale,  fortune-tellers  with  your  fate 
already  printed  and  neatly  folded  in  an  envelope, 
sometimes  a  pigeon-man  with  a  high  black  hat,  who 
made  his  doves  hop  from  shoulder  to  shoulder  along 
a  row  of  school -children,  or  a  man  with  a  monkey  that 
played  antics  to  the  sound  of  a  grinding  organ,  and 
that  was  dressed  up  in  a  red  worsted  jacket  and  a 
pair  of  cloth  trousers.  And  there  were  shooting-gal- 
leries and  puppet-shows  and  dancing -rooms,  and  at 
night,  when  the  darkness  came,  there  were  giuochi  di 
fuoco  which  lit  up  the  whole  sky,  till  you  could  see 
Etna  quite  plainly. 

"E"  veramente  un  paradise!"  concluded  Gaspare. 
245 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"A  paradise! "echoed  Maurice.  "A  paradise!  I  say, 
Gaspare,  why  can't  we  always  live  in  paradise?  Why 
can't  life  be  one  long  festa  ?" 

"  Non  lo  so,  signore.  And  the  signora  ?  Do  you  think 
she  will  be  here  for  the  fair?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  if  she  is  here,  I  am  not  sure 
that  she  will  come  to  see  it." 

"Why  not,  signorino?  Will  she  stay  with  the  sick 
signore?" 

"Perhaps.  But  I  don't  think  she  will' be  here.  She 
does  not  say  she  will  be  here." 

"Do  you  want  her  to  be  here,  signorino?"  Gaspare 
asked,  abruptly. 

"Why  do  you  ask  such  a  question?  Of  course  I  am 
happy,  very  happy,  when  the  signora  is  here." 

As  he  said  the  words  Maurice  remembered  how  happy 
he  had  been  in  the  house  of  the  priest  alone  with  Her- 
mione.  Indeed,  he  had  thought  that  he  was  perfectly 
happy,  that  he  had  nothing  left  to  wish  for.  But  that 
seemed  long  ago.  He  wondered  if  he  could  ever  again 
feel  that  sense  of  perfect  contentment.  He  could 
scarcely  believe  so.  A  certain  feverishness  had  stolen 
into  his  Sicilian  life.  He  felt  often  like  a  man  in  sus- 
pense, uncertain  of  the  future,  almost  apprehensive. 
He  no  longer  danced  the  tarantella  with  the  careless 
abandon  of  a  boy.  And  yet  he  sometimes  had  a  strange 
consciousness  that  he  was  near  to  something  that 
might  bring  to  him  a  joy  such  as  he  had  never  yet  ex- 
perienced. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  day  Hermione  is  arriving,"  he 
thought,  almost  fretfully.  "I  wish  she  wouldn't  keep 
me  hung  up  in  this  condition  of  uncertainty.  She 
seems  to  think  that  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  just  wait 
here  upon  the  pleasure  of  Artois." 

With  that  last  thought  the  old  sense  of  injury  rose 
in  him  again.  This  friend  of  Hermione's  was  spoiling 
everything,  was  being  put  before  every  one.  It  was 
246 


THE   CALL   OF  THE   BLOOD 

really  monstrous  that  even  during  their  honeymoon 
this  old  friendship  should  intrude,  should  be  allowed 
to  govern  their  actions  and  disturb  their  serenity. 
Now  that  Artois  was  out  of  danger  Maurice  began  to 
forget  how  ill  he  had  been,  began  sometimes  to  doubt 
whether  he  had  ever  been  so  ill  as  Hermione  supposed. 
Perhaps  Artois  was  one  of  those  men  who  liked  to  have 
a  clever  woman  at  his  beck  and  call.  These  literary 
fellows  were  often  terribly  exigent,  eaten  up  with  the 
sense  of  their  own  importance.  But  he,  Maurice,  was 
not  going  to  allow  himself  to  be  made  a  cat's-paw  of. 
He  would  make  Artois  understand  that  he  was  not 
going  to  permit  his  life  to  be  interfered  with  by  any 
one. 

"Ill  let  him  see  that  when  he  conies,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  111  take  a  strong  line.  A  man  must  be  the 
master  of  his  own  life  if  he's  worth  anything.  These 
Sicilians  understand  that." 

He  began  secretly  to  admire  what  before  he  had 
thought  almost  hateful,  the  strong  Arab  character- 
istics that  linger  on  in  many  Sicilians,  to  think  almost 
weak  and  unmanly  the  Western  attitude  to  woman. 

"I  will  be  master,"  he  said  to  himself  again.  "All 
these  Sicilians  are  wondering  that  I  ever  let  Hermione 
go  to  Africa.  Perhaps  they  think  I'm  a  muff  to  have 
given  in  about  it.  And  now,  when  Hermione  comes 
back  with  a  man,  they'll  suppose— God  knows  what 
they  won't  imagine!" 

He  had  begun  so  to  identify  himself  with  the  Sicilians 
about  Marechiaro  that  he  cared  what  they  thought,  was 
becoming  sensitive  to  their  opinion  of  him  as  if  he  had 
been  one  of  themselves.  One  day  Gaspare  told  him  a 
story  of  a  contadino  who  had  bought  a  house  in  the 
village,  but  who,  being  unable  to  complete  the  pay- 
ment, had  been  turned  out  into  the  street. 

"And  now,  signorino,"  Gaspare  concluded,  "they 
are  all  laughing  at  him  in  Marechiaro.  He  dare  not 
24? 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

show  himself  any  more  in  the  Piazza.  When  a  man 
cannot  go  any  more  into  the  Piazza — Madonna!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  spread  out  his  hands 
in  a  gesture  of  contemptuous  pity. 

"E'  finito!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Certo!"  said  Maurice. 

He  was  resolved  that  he  would  never  be  in  such  a 
case.  Hermione,  he  felt  now,  did  not  understand  the 
Sicilians  as  he  understood  them.  If  she  did  she  would 
not  bring  back  Artois  from  Africa,  she  would  not  ar- 
rive openly  with  him.  But  surely  she  ought  to  under- 
stand that  such  an  action  would  make  people  wonder, 
would  be  likely  to  make  them  think  that  Artois  was 
something  more  than  her  friend.  And  then  Maurice 
thought  of  the  day  of  their  arrival,  of  his  own  descent 
to  the  station,  to  wait  upon  the  platform  for  the  train. 
Artois  was  not  going  to  stay  in  the  house  of  the  priest. 
That  was  impossible,  as  there  was  no  guest-room.  He 
would  put  up  at  the  hotel  in  Marechiaro.  But  that 
would  make  little  difference.  He  was  to  arrive  with  Her- 
mione. Every  one  would  know  that  she  had  spent  all 
this  time  with  him  in  Africa.  Maurice  grew  hot  as  he 
thought  of  the  smiles  on  the  Sicilian  faces,  of  the  looks 
of  astonishment  at  the  strange  doings  of  the  forestieri. 
Hermione's  enthusiastic  kindness  was  bringing  her  hus- 
band almost  to  shame.  It  was  a  pity  that  people  were 
sometimes  thoughtless  in  their  eager  desire  to  be  gen- 
erous and  sympathetic. 

One  day,  when  Maurice  had  been  brooding  over  this 
matter  of  the  Sicilian's  view  of  Hermione's  proceedings, 
the  spirit  moved  him  to  go  down  on  foot  to  Marechiaro 
to  see  if  there  were  any  letters  for  him  at  the  post.  It 
was  now  June  yth.  In  four  days  would  come  the  fair. 
As  the  time  for  it  drew  near,  his  anxiety  lest  anything 
should  interfere  to  prevent  his  going  to  it  with  Madda- 
lena  increased,  and  each  day  at  post  time  he  was  filled 
with  a  fever  of  impatience  to  know  whether  there  would 
248 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

be  a  letter  from  Africa  or  not.  Antonino  generally  ap- 
peared about  four  o'clock,  but  the  letters  were  in  the 
village  long  before  then,  and  this  afternoon  Maurice  felt 
that  he  could  not  wait  for  the  boy's  coming.  He  had 
a  conviction  that  there  was  a  letter,  a  decisive  letter 
from  Hermione,  fixing  at  last  the  date  of  her  arrival 
with  Artois.  He  must  have  it  in  his  hands  at  the  first 
possible  moment.  If  he  went  himself  to  the  post  he 
would  know  the  truth  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half  sooner 
than  if  he  waited  in  the  house  of  the  priest.  He  re- 
solved, therefore,  to  go,  got  his  hat  and  stick,  and  set 
out,  after  telling  Gaspare,  who  was  watching  for  birds 
with  his  gun,  that  he  was  going  for  a  stroll  on  the  moun- 
tain-side and  might  be  away  for  a  couple  of  hours. 

It  was  a  brilliant  afternoon.  The  landscape  looked 
hard  in  the  fiery  sunshine,  the  shapes  of  the  mountains 
fierce  and  relentless,  the  dry  watercourses  almost  bit- 
ter in  their  barrenness.  Already  the  devastation  of 
the  summer  was  beginning  to  be  apparent.  All  ten- 
derness had  gone  from  the  higher  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tains which,  jocund  in  spring  and  in  autumn  with  grow- 
ing crops,  were  now  bare  and  brown,  and  seamed  like 
the  hide  of  a  tropical  reptile  gleaming  with  metallic 
hues.  The  lower  slopes  were  still  panoplied  with  the 
green  of  vines  and  of  trees,  but  the  ground  beneath  the 
trees  was  arid.  The  sun  was  coming  into  his  domin- 
ion with  pride  and  cruelty,  like  a  conqueror  who  loots 
the  land  he  takes  to  be  his  own. 

But  Maurice  did  not  mind  the  change,  which  drove 
the  tourists  northward,  and  left  Sicily  to  its  own  people. 
He  even  rejoiced  in  it.  As  each  day  the  heat  increased 
he  was  conscious  of  an  increasing  exultation,  such  as 
surely  the  snakes  and  the  lizards  feel  as  they  come  out 
of  their  hiding-places  into  the  golden  light.  He  was 
filled  with  a  glorious  sense  of  expansion,  as  if  his  capa- 
bilities grew  larger,  as  if  they  were  developed  by  heat 
like  certain  plants.  None  of  the  miseries  that  afflict 
249 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

many  people  in  the  violent  summers  which  govern 
southern  lands  were  his.  His  skin  did  not  peel,  his 
eyes  did  not  become  inflamed,  nor  did  his  head  ache 
under  the  action  of  the  burning  rays.  They  came  to 
him  like  brothers  and  he  rejoiced  in  their  company. 
To-day,  as  he  descended  to  Marechiaro,  he  revelled  in 
the  sun.  Its  ruthlessness  made  him  feel  ruthless.  He 
was  conscious  of  that.  At  this  moment  he  was  in  ab- 
solutely perfect  physical  health.  His  body  was  lithe 
and  supple,  yet  his  legs  and  arms  were  hard  with  spring- 
ing muscle.  His  warm  blood  sang  through  his  veins 
like  music  through  the  pipes  of  an  organ.  His  eyes 
shone  with  the  superb  animation  of  youth  that  is  ra- 
diantly sound.  For,  despite  his  anxiety,  his  sometimes 
almost  fretful  irritation  when  he  thought  about  the 
coming  of  Artois  and  the  passing  of  his  own  freedom, 
there  were  moments  when  he  felt  as  if  he  could  leap 
with  the  sheer  joy  of  life,  as  if  he  could  lift  up  his  arms 
and  burst  forth  into  a  wild  song  of  praise  to  his  divinity, 
the  sun.  And  this  grand  condition  of  health  made  him 
feel  ruthless,  as  the  man  who  conquers  and  enters  a 
city  in  triumph  feels  ruthless.  As  he  trod  down  tow- 
ards Marechiaro  to-day,  thinking  of  the  letter  that  per- 
haps awaited  him,  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be 
monstrous  if  anything,  if  any  one,  were  to  interfere  with 
his  day  of  joy,  the  day  he  was  looking  forward  to  with 
such  eager  anticipation.  He  felt  inclined  to  trample 
over  opposition.  Yet  what  could  he  do  if,  by  some 
evil  chance,  Hermione  and  Artois  arrived  the  day  be- 
fore the  fair,  or  on  the  very  day  of  the  fair?  He  hur- 
ried his  steps.  He  wanted  to  be  in  the  village,  to  know 
whether  there  was  a  letter  for  him  from  Africa. 

When  he  came  into  the  village  it  was  about  half -past 
two  o'clock,  and  the  long,  narrow  main  street  was  de- 
serted. The  owners  of  some  of  the  antiquity  shops  had 
already  put  up  their  shutters  for  the  summer.  Other 
shops,  still  open,  showed  gaping  doorways,  through 
250 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

which  no  travellers  passed.  Inside,  the  proprietors  were 
dozing  among  their  red  brocades,  their  pottery,  their 
Sicilian  jewelry  and  obscure  pictures  thick  with  dust, 
guarded  by  squadrons  of  large,  black  flies,  which  droned 
on  walls  and  ceilings,  crept  over  the  tiled  floors,  and 
clung  to  the  draperies  and  laces  which  lay  upon  the 
cabinets.  In  the  shady  little  rooms  of  the  barbers 
small  boys  in  linen  jackets  kept  a  drowsy  vigil  for  the 
proprietors,  who  were  sleeping  in  some  dark  corner  of 
bedchamber  or  wine-shop.  But  no  customer  came  to 
send  them  flying.  The  sun  made  the  beards  push  on 
the  brown  Sicilian  faces,  but  no  one  wanted  to  be  shaved 
before  the  evening  fell.  Two  or  three  lads  lounged  by 
on  their  way  to  the  sea  with  towels  and  bathing-drawers 
over  their  arms.  A  few  women  were  spinning  flax  on 
the  door-lintels,  or  filling  buckets  of  water  from  the 
fountain.  A  few  children  were  trying  to  play  mys- 
terious games  in  the  narrow  alleys  that  led  downward 
to  the  sea  and  upward  to  the  mountains  on  the  left  and 
right  of  the  street.  A  donkey  brayed  under  an  arch- 
way as  if  to  summon  its  master  from  his  siesta.  A  cat 
stole  along  the  gutter,  and  vanished  into  a  hole  beneath 
a  shut  door.  But  the  village  was  almost  like  a  dead 
village,  slain  by  the  sun  in  his  carelessness  of  pride. 

On  his  way  to  the  post  Maurice  passed  through  the 
Piazza  that  was  the  glory  of  Marechiaro  and  the  place 
of  assemblage  for  its  people.  Here  the  music  sounded 
on  festa  days  before  the  stone  steps  that  led  up  to  the 
church  of  San  Giuseppe.  Here  was  the  principal  caffe, 
the  Caffe  Nuovo,  where  granite  and  ices  were  to  be  had, 
delicious  yellow  cakes,  and  chocolate  made  up  into  shapes 
of  crowing  cocks,  of  pigs,  of  little  men  with  hats,  and 
of  saints  with  flowing  robes.  Here,  too,  was  the  club, 
with  chairs  and  sofas  now  covered  with  white,  and  long 
tables  adorned  with  illustrated  journals  and  the  papers 
of  Catania,  of  Messina,  and  Palermo.  But  at  this  hour 
the  caffe  was  closed  and  the  club  was  empty.  For  the 
17  25i 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

sun  beat  down  with  fury  upon  the  open  space  with  its 
tiled  pavement,  and  the  seats  let  into  the  wall  that 
sheltered  the  Piazza,  from  the  precipice  that  frowned 
above  the  sea  were  untenanted  by  loungers.  As  Mau- 
rice went  by  he  thought  of  Gaspare's  words,  "When  a 
man  cannot  go  any  more  into  the  Piazza— Madonna,  it 
is  finished!"  This  was  the  place  where  the  public  opin- 
ion of  Marechiaro  was  formed,  where  fame  was  made  and 
characters  were  taken  away.  He  paused  for  an  instant 
by  the  church,  then  went  on  tinder  the  clock  tower  and 
came  to  the  post. 

"Any  letters  for  me,  Don  Paolo?"  he  asked  of  the 
postmaster. 

The  old  man  saluted  him  languidly  through  the  peep- 
hole. 

"Si,  signore,  ce  ne  sono." 

He  turned  to  seek  for  them  while  Maurice  waited.  He 
heard  the  flies  buzzing.  Their  noise  was  loud  in  his 
ears.  His  heart  beat  strongly  and  he  was  gnawed  by 
suspense.  Never  before  had  he  felt  so  anxious,  so 
impatient  to  know  anything  as  he  was  now  to  know 
if  among  the  letters  there  was  one  from  Hermione. 

"Ecco,  signore!" 

"Grazie!" 

Maurice  took  the  packet. 

"A  rivederci!" 

"A  rivederlo,  signore." 

He  went  away  down  the  street.  But  now  he  had  his 
letters  he  did  not  look  at  them  immediately.  Some- 
thing held  him  back  from  looking  at  them  until  he  had 
come  again  into  the  Piazza.  It  was  still  deserted.  He 
went  over  to  the  seat  by  the  wall,  and  sat  down  side- 
ways, so  that  he  could  look  over  the  wall  to  the  sea 
immediately  below  him.  Then,  very  slowly,  he  drew 
out  his  cigarette-case,  selected  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and 
began  to  smoke  like  a  man  who  was  at  ease  and  idle. 
He  glanced  over  the  wall.  At  the  foot  of  the  precipice 
252 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

by  the  sea  was  the  station  of  Cattaro,  at  which  Her- 
mione  and  Artois  would  arrive  when  they  came.  He 
could  see  the  platform,  some  trucks  of  merchandise 
standing  on  the  rails,  the  white  road  winding  by  tow- 
ards San  Felice  and  Etna.  After  a  long  look  down  he 
turned  at  last  to  the  packet  from  the  post  which  he  had 
laid  upon  the  hot  stone  at  his  side.  The  Times,  the 
"Pink  'un,"  the  Illustrated  London  News,  and  three 
letters.  The  first  was  obviously  a  bill  forwarded  from 
London.  The  second  was  also  from  England.  He 
recognized  the  handwriting  of  his  mother.  The  third  ? 
He  turned  it  over.  Yes,  it  was  from  Hermione.  His 
instinct  had  not  deceived  him.  He  was  certain,  too, 
that  it  did  not  deceive  him  now.  He  was  certain  that 
this  was  the  letter  that  fixed  the  date  of  her  coming 
with  Artois.  He  opened  the  two  other  letters  and 
glanced  over  them,  and  then  at  last  he  tore  the  cover- 
ing from  Hermione's.  A  swift,  searching  look  was 
enough.  The  letter  dropped  from  his  hand  to  the  seat. 
He  had  seen  these  words: 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  ?  Emile  may  leave  at  once.  But 
there  is  no  good  boat  till  the  tenth.  We  shall  take  that, 
and  be  at  Cattaro  on  the  eleventh  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  ..." 

"Isn't  it  splendid?" 

• '  For  a  moment  he  sat  quite  still  in  the  glare  of  the 
sun,  mentally  repeating  to  himself  these  words  of  his 
wife.  So  the  inevitable  had  happened.  For  he  felt  it 
was  inevitable.  Fate  was  against  him.  He  was  not 
to  have  his  pleasure. 

"  Signorino!     Come  sta  lei  ?     Lei  sta  bene  ?" 

He  started  and  looked  up.  He  had  heard  no  foot- 
step. Salvatore  stood  by  him,  smiling  at  him,  Salva- 
tore  with  bare  feet,  and  a  fish -basket  slung  over  his 
arm. 

"Buon  giorno,  Salvatore!"  he  answered,  with  an  ef- 
fort. 

353 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Salvatore  looked  at  Maurice's  cigarette,  put  down  the 
basket,  and  sat  down  on  the  seat  by  Maurice's  side. 

"  I  haven't  smoked  to-day,  signore,"  he  began.  "  Dio 
mio!  But  it  must  be  good  to  have  plenty  of  soldi!" 

"Ecco!" 

Maurice  held  out  his  cigarette-case. 

"Take  two— three!" 

"Grazie,  signore,  mille  grazie!" 

He  took  them  greedily. 

"And  the  fair,  signorino — only  four  days  now  to  the 
fair!  I  have  been  to  order  the  donkeys  for  me  and 
Maddalena." 

"Davvero?"  Maurice  said,  mechanically. 

"Si,  signore.  From  Angelo  of  the  mill.  He  wanted 
fifteen  lire,  but  I  laughed  at  him.  I  was  with  him  a 
good  hour  and  I  got  them  for  nine.  Per  Dio!  Fifteen 
lire  and  to  a  Siciliano!  For  he  didn't  know  you  were 
coming.  I  took  care  not  to  tell  him  that." 

"  Oh,  you  took  care  not  to  tell  him  that  I  was  coming!" 

Maurice  was  looking  over  the  wall  at  the  platform  of 
the  station  far  down  below.  He  seemed  to  see  himself 
upon  it,  waiting  for  the  train  to  glide  in  on  the  day  of 
the  fair,  waiting  among  the  smiling  Sicilian  facchini. 

"Si,  signore.     Was  not  I  right?" 

"Quite  right." 

"Per  Dio,  signore,  these  are  good  cigarettes.  Where 
do  they  come  from?" 

"From  Cairo,  in  Egypt." 

"  Egitto!     They  must  cost  a  lot." 

He  edged  nearer  to  Maurice. 

"You  must  be  very  happy,  signorino." 

"I!"     Maurice  laughed.     "Madonna!     Why?" 

"Because  you  are  so  rich!" 

There  was  a  fawning  sound  in  the  fisherman's  voice, 
a  fawning  look  in  his  small,  screwed-up  eyes. 

"To  you  it  would  be  nothing  to  buy  all  the  donkeys 
at  the  fair  of  San  Felice." 

254 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Maurice  moved  ever  so  little  away  from  him. 

"Ah,  signorino,  if  I  had  been  bora  you  how  happy 
I  should  be!" 

And  he  heaved  a  great  sigh  and  puffed  at  the  cigarette 
voluptuously. 

Maurice  said  nothing.     He  was  still  looking  at  the 
railway  platform.     And  now  he  seemed  to  see  the  train 
gliding  in  on  the  day  of  the  fair  of  San  Felice. 
Signorino !     Signorino ! ' ' 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Salvatore?" 

"I  have  ordered  the  donkeys  for  ten  o'clock.  Then 
we  can  go  quietly.  They  will  be  at  Isola  Bella  at  ten 
o'clock.  I  shall  bring  Maddalena  round  in  the  boat  " 

"Oh!" 

Salvatore  chuckled. 

"She  has  got  a  surprise  for  you,  signore." 

"A  surprise?" 

"Per  Dio!" 

"What  is  it?" 

His  voice  was  listless,  but  now  he  looked  at  Salvatore. 

"I  ought  not  to  tell  you,  signore.  But — if  I  do — 
you  won't  ever  tell  her?" 

"No." 

"A  new  gown,  signorino,  a  beautiful  new  gown,  made 
by  Maria  Compagni  here  in  the  Corso.  Will  you  be  at 
Isola  Bella  with  Gaspare  by  ten  o'clock  on  the  day, 
signorino  ?" 

"  Yes,  Salvatore!"  Maurice  said,  in  a  loud,  firm,  almost 
angry  voice.  "  I  will  be  there.  Don't  doubt  it.  Addio 
Salvatore!" 

He  got  up. 

"A  rivederci,  signore.     Ma — " 

He  got  up,  too,  and  bent  to  pick  up  his  fish-basket. 

"No,  don't  come  with  me.  I'm  going  up  now, 
straight  up  by  the  Castello." 

"In  all  this  heat?     But  it's  steep  there,  signore,  and 
the  path  is  all  covered  with  stones.     You'll  never — 
255 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"That  doesn't  matter.     I  like  the  sun.     Addio!" 

"And  this  evening,  signorino?  You  are  coming  to 
bathe  this  evening?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  so.  Don't  wait  for  me. 
Go  to  sea  if  you  want  to!" 

"Birbanti!"  muttered  the  fisherman,  as  he  watched 
Maurice  stride  away  across  the  Piazza,  and  strike  up  the 
mountain-side  by  the  tiny  path  that  led  to  the  Castello. 
"  You  want  to  get  me  out  of  the  way,  do  you  ?  Birbanti ! 
Ah,  you  fine  strangers  from  England !  You  think  to  come 
here  and  find  men  that  are  babies,  do  you  ?  men  that — 

He  went  off  noiselessly  on  his  bare  feet,  muttering  to 
himself  with  the  half -smoked  cigarette  in  his  lean,  brown 
hand. 

Meanwhile,  Maurice  climbed  rapidly  up  the  steep  track 
over  the  stones  in  the  eye  of  the  sun.  He  had  not  lied 
to  Salvatore.  While  the  fisherman  had  been  speaking 
to  him  he  had  come  to  a  decision.  A  disgraceful  de- 
cision he  knew  it  to  be,  but  he  would  keep  to  it.  Noth- 
ing should  prevent  him  from  keeping  to  it.  He  would 
be  at  Isola  Bella  on  the  day  of  the  fair.  He  would  go 
to  San  Felice.  He  would  stay  there  till  the  last  rocket 
burst  in  the  sky  over  Etna,  till  the  last  song  had  been 
sung,  the  last  toast  shouted,  the  last  tarantella  danced, 
the  last — kiss  given — the  last,  the  very  last.  He  would 
ignore  this  message  from  Africa.  He  would  pretend  he 
had  never  received  it.  He  would  lie  about  it.  Yes, 
he  would  lie — but  he  would  have  his  pleasure.  He  was 
determined  upon  that,  and  nothing  should  shake  him, 
no  qualms  of  conscience,  no  voices  within  him,  no  mem- 
ories of  past  days,  no  promptings  of  duty. 

He  hurried  up  the  stony  path.  He  did  not  feel  the 
sun  upon  him.  The  sweat  poured  down  over  his  face, 
his  body.  He  did  not  know  it.  His  heart  was  set 
hard,  and  he  felt  villanous,  but  he  felt  quite  sure  what 
he  was  going  to  do,  quite  sure  that  he  was  going  to  the 
fair  despite  that  letter. 

256 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

When  he  reached  the  priest's  house  he  felt  exhausted. 
Without  knowing  it  he  had  come  up  the  mountain  at 
a  racing  pace.  But  he  was  not  tired  merely  because 
of  that.  He  sank  down  in  a  chair  in  the  sitting-room. 
Lucrezia  came  and  peeped  at  him. 

"Where  is  Gaspare?"  he  asked,  putting  his  hand  in- 
stinctively over  the  pocket  in  which  were  the  letters. 

"He  is  still  out  after  the  birds,  signore.  He  has  shot 
five  already." 

"Poor  little  wretches!     And  he's  still  out?" 

"Si,  signore.  He  has  gone  on  to  Don  Peppino's  ter- 
reno  now.  There  are  many  birds  there.  How  hot  you 
are,  signorino!  Shall  I — ' 

"No,  no.     Nothing,  Lucrezia!     Leave  me  alone!" 

She  disappeared. 

Then  Maurice  drew  the  letters  from  his  pocket  and 
slowly  spread  out  Hermione's  in  his  lap.  He  had  not 
read  it  through  yet.  He  had  only  glanced  at  it  and  seen 
what  he  had  feared  to  see.  Now  he  read  it  word  by 
word,  very  slowly  and  carefully.  When  he  had  come 
to  the  end  he  kept  it  on  his  knee  and  sat  for  some  time 
quite  still. 

In  the  letter  Hermione  asked  him  to  go  to  the  H6tel 
Regina  Margherita  at  Marechiaro,  and  engage  two  good 
rooms  facing  the  sea  for  Artois,  a  bedroom  and  a  sitting- 
room.  They  were  to  be  ready  for  the  eleventh.  She 
wrote  with  her  usual  splendid  frankness.  Her  soul  was 
made  of  sincerity  as  a  sovereign  is  made  of  gold. 

"I  know" — these  were  her  words — "I  know  you  will 
try  and  make  Emile's  coming  to  Sicily  a  little  festa. 
Don't  think  I  imagine  you  are  personally  delighted  at 
his  coming,  though  I  am  sure  you  are  delighted  at  his 
recovery.  He  is  my  old  friend,  not  yours,  and  I  am 
not  such  a  fool  as  to  suppose  that  you  can  care  for 
him  at  all  as  I  do,  who  have  known  him  intimately  and 
proved  his  loyalty  and  his  nobility  of  nature.  But  I 
think,  I  am  certain,  Maurice,  that  you  will  make  his  com- 
257 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

ing  a  festa  for  my  sake.  He  has  suffered  very  much. 
He  is  as  weak  almost  as  a  child  still.  There's  something 
tremendously  pathetic  in  the  weakness  of  body  of  a 
man  so  brilliant  in  mind,  so  powerful  of  soul.  It  goes 
right  to  my  heart  as  I  think  it  would  go  to  yours.  Let 
us  make  his  return  to  life  beautiful  and  blessed.  Sha'n't 
we?  Put  flowers  in  the  rooms  for  me,  won't  you? 
Make  them  look  homey.  Put  some  books  about.  But 
I  needn't  tell  you.  We  are  one,  you  and  I,  and  I 
needn't  tell  you  any  more.  It  would  be  like  telling 
things  to  myself — as  unnecessary  as  teaching  an  organ- 
grinder  how  to  turn  the  handle  of  his  organ!  Oh,  Mau- 
rice, I  can  laugh  to-day!  I  could  almost — / — get  up  and 
dance  the  tarantella  all  alone  here  in  my  little,  bare 
room  with  no  books  and  scarcely  any  flowers.  And  at 
the  station  show  Emile  he  is  welcome.  He  is  a  little 
diffident  at  coming.  He  fancies  perhaps  he  will  be  in 
the  way.  But  one  look  of  yours,  one  grasp  of  your 
hand  will  drive  it  all  out  of  him!  God  bless  you,  my 
dearest.  How  he  has  blessed  me  in  giving  you  to 
me!" 

As  Maurice  sat  there,  under  his  skin,  burned  deep 
brown  by  the  sun,  there  rose  a  hot  flush  of  red!  Yes, 
he  reddened  at  the  thought  of  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
but  still  he  meant  to  do  it.  He  could  not  forego  his 
pleasure.  He  could  not.  There  was  something  wild 
and  imperious  within  him  that  defied  his  better  self  at 
this  moment.  But  the  better  self  was  not  dead.  It 
was  even  startlingly  alive,  enough  alive  to  stand  almost 
aghast  at  that  which  was  going,  it  knew,  to  dominate 
it — to  dominate  it  for  a  time,  but  only  for  a  time.  On 
that  he  was  resolved,  as  he  was  resolved  to  have  this 
one  pleasure  to  which  he  had  looked  forward,  to  which 
he  was  looking  forward  now.  Men  often  mentally  put 
a  period  to  their  sinning.  Maurice  put  a  period  to  his 
sinning  as  he  sat  staring  at  the  letter  on  his  knees.  And 
the  period  which  he  put  was  the  day  of  the  fair  at  San 
258 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

Felice.  After  that  day  this  book  of  his  wild  youth  was 
to  be  closed  forever. 

After  the  day  of  the  fair  he  would  live  rightly,  sincere- 
ly, meeting  as  it  deserved  to  be  met  the  utter  sincerity 
of  his  wife.  He  would  be,  after  that  date,  entirely 
straight  with  her.  He  loved  her.  As  he  looked  at  her 
letter  he  felt  that  he  did  love,  must  love,  such  love  as 
hers.  He  was  not  a  bad  man,  but  he  was  a  wilful  man. 
The  wild  heart  of  youth  in  him  was  wilful.  Well,  after 
San  Felice,  he  would  control  that  wilfulness  of  his  heart, 
he  would  discipline  it.  He  would  do  more,  he  would  for- 
get that  it  existed.  After  San  Felice! 

With  a  sigh,  like  that  of  a  burdened  man,  he  got  up, 
took  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  went  out  up  the  moun- 
tain-side. There  he  tore  the  letter  and  its  envelope  into 
fragments,  and  hid  the  fragments  in  a  heap  of  stones 
hot  with  the  sun. 

When  Gaspare  came  in  that  evening  with  a  string  of 
little  birds  in  his  hand  and  asked  Maurice  if  there  were 
any  letter  from  Africa  to  say  when  the  signora  would 
arrive,  Maurice  answered  "No." 

"Then  the  signora  will  not  be  here  for  the  fair,  sig- 
norino?"  said  the  boy. 

"I  don't  suppose — no,  Gaspare,  she  will  not  be  here 
for  the  fair." 

"She  would  have  written  by  now  if  she  were  coming. 

"Yes,  if  she  were  coming  she  would  certainly  have 
written  by  now." 


XVI 

"SIGNORINO!     Signorino!     Are  you  ready?" 

It  was  Gaspare's  voice  shouting  vivaciously  from  the 
sunny  terrace,  where  Tito  and  another  donkey,  gayly  ca- 
parisoned and  decorated  with  flowers  and  little  streamers 
of  colored  ribbon,  were  waiting  before  the  steps. 

"Si,  si!  I'm  coming  in  a  moment!"  replied  Maurice's 
voice  from  the  bedroom. 

Lucrezia  stood  by  the  wall  looking  very  dismal.  She 
longed  to  go  to  the  fair,  and  that  made  her  sad.  But 
there  was  also  another  reason  for  her  depression.  Sebas- 
tiano  was  still  away,  and  for  many  days  he  had  not 
written  to  her.  This  was  bad  enough.  But  there  was 
something  worse.  News  had  come  to  Marechiaro  from 
a  sailor  of  Messina,  a  friend  of  Sebastiano's,  that  Se- 
bastiano  was  lingering  in  the  Lipari  Isles  because  he  had 
found  a  girl  there,  a  pretty  girl  called  Teodora  Amalfi, 
to  whom  he  was  paying  attentions.  And  although 
Lucrezia  laughed  at  the  story,  and  pretended  to  dis- 
believe it,  her  heart  was  rent  by  jealousy  and  despair, 
and  a  longing  to  travel  away,  to  cross  the  sea,  to  tear 
her  lover  from  temptation,  to  —  to  speak  for  a  few 
moments  quietly — oh,  very  quietly — with  this  Teodora. 
Even  now,  while  she  stared  at  the  donkeys,  and  at 
Gaspare  in  his  festa  suit,  with  two  large,  pink  roses 
above  his  ears,  she  put  up  her  hands  instinctively  to 
her  own  ears,  as  if  to  pluck  the  ear-rings  out  of  them,  as 
the  Sicilian  women  of  the  lower  classes  do,  deliberately, 
sternly,  before  they  begin  to  fight  their  rivals,  women 
who  have  taken  their  lovers  or  their  husbands  from  them. 
260 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Ah,  if  she  were  only  in  the  Lipari  Isles  she  would 
speak  with  Teodora  Amalfi,  speak  with  her  till  the 
blood  flowed!  She  set  her  teeth,  and  her  face  looked 
almost  old  in  the  sunshine. 

"Coraggio,  Lucrezia!"  laughed  Gaspare.  "He  will 
come  back  some  day  when — when  he  has  sold  enough 
to  the  people  of  the  isles!  But  where  is  the  padrone, 
Dio  mio?  Signorino!  Signorino!" 

Maurice  appeared  at  the  sitting-room  door  and  came 
slowly  down  the  steps. 

Gaspare  stared.     "Eccomi!" 

"Why,  signorino,  what  is  the  matter?  What  has 
happened  ?" 

"Happened?     Nothing!" 

"Then  why  do  you  look  so  black?" 

"I!     It's  the  shadow  of  the  awning  on  my  face." 

He  smiled.     He  kept  on  smiling. 

"I  say,  Gasparino,  how  splendid  the  donkeys  are! 
And  you,  too!" 

He  took  hold  of  the  boy  by  the  shoulders  and  turned 
him  round. 

"Per  Bacco!  We  shall  make  a  fine  show  at  the  fair! 
I've  got  money,  lot's  of  money,  to  spend!" 

He  showed  his  portfolio,  full  of  dirty  notes.  Gas- 
pare's eyes  began  to  sparkle. 

"Wait,  signorino!" 

He  lifted  his  hands  to  Maurice's  striped  flannel  jacket 
and  thrust  two  large  bunches  of  flowers  and  ferns  into 
the  two  button-holes,  to  right  and  left. 

"Bravo!     Now,  then." 

"No,  no,  signorino!     Wait!" 

"More  flowers!  But  where  —  what,  over  my  ears, 
too!" 

He  began  to  laugh. 

"But — " 

"  Si,  signore,  si!    To-day  you  must  be  a  real  Siciliano!" 

"Va  benel" 

261 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

He  bent  down  his  head  to  be  decorated. 

"Pouf!  They  tickle!  There,  then!  Now  let's  be 
off!" 

He  leaped  onto  Tito's  back.  Gaspare  sprang  up  on 
the  other  donkey. 

"Addio,  Lucrezia!" 

Maurice  turned  to  her. 

"  Don't  leave  the  house  to-day." 

"No,  signore,"  said  poor  Lucrezia,  in  a  deplorable 
voice. 

"  Mind,  now!  Don't  go  down  to  Marechiaro  this  after- 
noon." 

There  was  an  odd  sound,  almost  of  pleading,  in  his 
voice. 

"No,  signore." 

"I  trust  you  to  be  here — remember." 

"Va  bene,  signorino!" 

"Ah — a — a — ah!"  shouted  Gaspare. 

They  were  off. 

"Signorino/'  said  Gaspare,  presently,  when  they  were 
in  the  shadow  of  the  ravine,  "why  did  you  say  all  that 
to  Lucrezia?" 

"All  what?" 

"All  that  about  not  leaving  the  house  to-day?" 

"Oh — why — it's  better  to  have  some  one  there." 

"Si,  signore.     But  why  to-day  specially?" 

"I  don't  know.     There's  no  particular  reason." 

"I  thought  there  was." 

" No,  of  course  not.     How  could  there  be?" 

"Non  lo  so." 

"  If  Lucrezia  goes  down  to  the  village  they'll  be  filling 
her  ears  with  that  stupid  gossip  about  Sebastiano  and 
that  girl— Teodora." 

" It  was  for  Lucrezia  then,  signorino?" 

"Yes,  for  Lucrezia.  She's  miserable  enough  already. 
I  don't  want  her  to  be  a  spectacle  when— when  the 
signora  returns." 

262 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

"I  wonder  when  she  is  coming?  I  wonder  why  she 
has  not  written  all  these  days?" 

"  Oh,  she'll  soon  come.  We  shall — we  shall  very  soon 
have  her  here  with  us." 

He  tried  to  speak  naturally,  but  found  the  effort 
difficult,  knowing  what  he  knew,  that  in  the  evening 
of  that  day  Hermione  would  arrive  at  the  house  of  the 
priest  and  find  no  preparations  made  for  her  return,  no 
one  to  welcome  her  but  Lucrezia — if,  indeed,  Lucrezia 
obeyed  his  orders  and  refrained  from  descending  to  the 
village  on  the  chance  of  hearing  some  fresh  news  of  her 
fickle  lover.  And  Artois!  There  were  no  rooms  engaged 
for  him  at  the  Hotel  Regina  Margherita.  There  were 
no  flowers,  no  books.  Maurice  tingled — his  whole  body 
tingled  for  a  moment — and  he  felt  like  a  man  guilty  of 
some  mean  crime  and  arraigned  before  all  the  world. 
Then  he  struck  Tito  with  his  switch,  and  began  to  gallop 
down  the  steep  path  at  a  breakneck  pace,  sticking  his 
feet  far  out  upon  either  side.  He  would  forget.  He 
would  put  away  these  thoughts  that  were  tormenting 
him.  He  would  enjoy  this  day  of  pleasure  for  which 
he  had  sacrificed  so  much,  for  which  he  had  trampled 
down  his  self-respect  in  the  dust. 

When  they  reached  the  road  by  Isola  Bella,  Salvatore's 
boat  was  just  coming  round  the  point,  vigorously  pro- 
pelled by  the  fisherman's  strong  arms  over  the  radiant 
sea.  It  was  a  magnificent  day,  very  hot  but  not  sultry, 
free  from  sirocco.  The  sky  was  deep  blue,  a  passionate, 
exciting  blue  that  seemed  vocal,  as  if  it  were  saying 
thrilling  things  to  the  world  that  lay  beneath  it.  The 
waveless  sea  was  purple,  a  sea,  indeed,  of  legend,  a  wine- 
dark,  lustrous,  silken  sea.  Into  it,  just  here  along  this 
magic  coast,  was  surely  gathered  all  the  wonder  of  color 
of  all  the  southern  seas.  They  must  be  blanched  to 
make  this  marvel  of  glory,  this  immense  jewel  of  God. 
And  the  lemon  groves  were  thick  along  the  sea.  And 
the  orange-trees  stood  in  their  decorative  squadrons 
263 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

drinking  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  with  an  ecstatic  submis- 
sion. And  Etna,  snowless  Etna,  rose  to  heaven  out  of 
this  morning  world,  with  its  base  in  the  purple  glory 
and  its  feather  of  smoke  in  the  calling  blue,  child  of  the 
sea-god  and  of  the  god  that  looks  down  from  the  height, 
majestically  calm  in  the  riot  of  splendor  that  set  the 
feet  of  June  dancing  in  a  great  tarantella. 

As  Maurice  saw  the  wonder  of  sea  and  sky,  the  boat 
coming  in  over  the  sea,  with  Maddalena  in  the  stern 
holding  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  his  heart  leaped  up  and  he 
forgot  for  a  moment  the  shadow  in  himself,  the  shadow 
of  his  own  unworthiness.  He  sprang  off  the  donkey. 

"I'll  go  down  to  meet  them!"  he  cried.  "Catch  hold 
of  Tito,  Gaspare!" 

The  railway  line  ran  along  the  sea,  between  road  and 
beach.  He  had  to  cross  it.  In  doing  so  one  of  his  feet 
struck  the  metal  rail,  which  gave  out  a  dry  sound.  He 
looked  down,  suddenly  recalled  to  a  reality  other  than 
the  splendor  of  the  morning,  the  rapture  of  this  careless 
festa  day.  And  again  he  was  conscious  of  the  shadow. 
Along  this  line,  in  a  few  hours,  would  come  the  train 
bearing  Hermione  and  Artois.  Hermione  would  be  at 
the  window,  eagerly  looking  out,  full  of  happy  anticipa- 
tion, leaning  to  catch  the  first  sight  of  his  face,  to  re- 
ceive and  return  his  smile  of  welcome.  What  would  her 
face  be  like  when — ?  But  Salvatore  was  hailing  him 
from  the  sea.  Maddalena  was  waving  her  jiand.  The 
thing  was  done.  The  die  was  cast.  He  had  chosen 
his  lot.  Fiercely  he  put  away  from  him  the  thought 
of  Hermione,  lifted  his  voice  in  an  answering  hail,  his 
hand  in  a  salutation  which  he  tried  to  make  carelessly 
joyous.  The  boat  glided  in  between  the  flat  rocks. 
And  then — then  he  was  able  to  forget.  For  Madda- 
lena's  long  eyes  were  looking  into  his,  with  the  joyous- 
ness  of  a  child's,  and  yet  with  something  of  the  expecta- 
tion of  a  woman's,  too.  And  her  brown  face  was  alive 
with  a  new  and  delicious  self-consciousness,  asking  him 
264 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

to  praise  her  for  the  surprise  she  had  prepared,  in  his 
honor  surely,  specially  for  him,  and  not  for  her  com- 
rades and  the  public  of  the  fair. 

"Maddalena!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  put  out  his  hands  to  help  her  out.  She  stood  on 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat  and  jumped  lightly  down,  with 
a  little  laugh,  onto  the  beach. 

"  Maddalena!     Per  Dio!     Ma  che  bellezza!" 

She  laughed  again,  and  stood  there  on  the  stones 
before  him  smiling  and  watching  him,  with  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  the  hand  that  held  the  tight 
bouquet  of  roses  and  ferns,  round  as  a  ring  and  red  as 
dawn,  up  to  her  lips,  as  if  a  sudden  impulse  prompted 
her  now  to  conceal  something  of  her  pleasure. 

"Le  piace?" 

It  came  to  him  softly  over  the  roses. 

Maurice  said  nothing,  but  took  her  hand  and  looked 
at  her.  Salvatore  was  fastening  up  the  boat  and  putting 
the  oars  into  their  places,  and  getting  his  jacket  and  hat. 

What  a  transformation  it  was,  making  an  almost 
new  Maddalena!  This  festival  dress  was  really  quite 
wonderful.  He  felt  inclined  to  touch  it  here  and  there, 
to  turn  Maddalena  round  for  new  aspects,  as  a  child 
turns  round  a  marvellous  doll. 

Maddalena  wore  a  tudischina,  a  bodice  of  blue  cotton 
velvet,  ornamented  with  yellow  silken  fringes,  and  open- 
ing over  the  breast  to  show  a  section  of  snowy  white 
edged  with  little  buttons  of  sparkling  steel.  Her  petti- 
coat—  the  sinava  —  was  of  pea-green  silk  and  thread, 
and  was  partially  covered  by  an  apron,  a  real  coquette 
of  an  apron,  white  and  green,  with  little  pockets  and 
puckers,  and  a  green  rosette  where  the  strings  met  round 
the  supple  waist.  Her  sleeves  were  of  white  muslin, 
bound  with  yellow  silk  ribbons,  and  her  stockings  were 
blue,  the  color  of  the  bodice.  On  her  feet  were  shining 
shoes  of  black  leather,  neatly  tied  with  small,  black 
ribbons,  and  over  her  shoulders  was  a  lovely  shawl  of 
265 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

blue  and  white  with  a  pattern  of  flowers.  She  wore 
nothing  on  her  head,  but  in  her  ears  were  heavy  ear- 
rings, and  round  her  neck  was  a  thin  silver  chain  with 
bright-blue  stones  threaded  on  it  here  and  there. 

"  Maddalena!"  Maurice  said,  at  last.  "  You  are  a  queen 
to-day!" 

He  stopped   then  he  added: 

"No,  you  are  a  siren  to-day,  the  siren  I  once  fancied 
you  might  be." 

"A  siren,  signorino?     What  is  that?" 

"An  enchantress  of  the  sea  with  a  voice  that  makes 
men — that  makes  men  feel  they  cannot  go,  they  cannot 
leave  it." 

Maddalena  lifted  the  roses  a  little  higher  to  hide  her 
face,  but  Maurice  saw  that  her  eyes  were  still  smiling, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  looked  even  more  radiant- 
ly happy  than  when  she  had  taken  his  hands  to  spring 
down  to  the  beach. 

Now  Salvatore  came  up  in  his  glory  of  a  dark -blue 
suit,  with  a  gay  shirt  of  pink-and-white  striped  cotton, 
fastened  at  the  throat  with  long,  pink  strings  that  had 
tasselled  ends,  a  scarlet  bow-tie  with  a  brass  anchor  and 
the  Italian  flag  thrust  through  it,  yellow  shoes,  and  a 
black  hat,  placed  well  over  the  left  ear.  Upon  the  fore- 
finger of  his  left  hand  he  displayed  a  thick  snake -ring 
of  tarnished  metal,  and  he  had  a  large,  overblown  rose 
in  his  button-hole.  His  mustaches  had  been  carefully 
waxed,  his  hair  cropped,  and  his  hawklike,  subtle,  and 
yet  violent  face  well  washed  for  the  great  occasion. 
With  bold  familiarity  he  seized  Maurice's  hand. 

"Buon  giorno,  signore.     Come  sta  lei?" 

"Benissimo." 

"And  Maddalena,  signore?  What  do  you  think  of 
Maddalena?" 

He  looked  at  his  girl  with  a  certain  pride,  and  then 
back  at  Maurice  searchingly. 

"Maddalena  is  beautiful  to-day,"  Maurice  answered, 
266 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

quickly.  He  did  not  want  to  discuss  her  with  her 
father,  whom  he  longed  to  be  rid  of,  whom  he  meant  to 
get  rid  of  if  possible  at  the  fair.  Surely  it  would  be  easy 
to  give  him  the  slip  there.  He  would  be  drinking  with 
his  companions,  other  fishermen  and  contadini,  or  play- 
ing cards,  or — yes,  that  was  an  idea! 

"Salvatore!"  Maurice  exclaimed,  catching  hold  of  the 
fisherman's  arm. 

"Signore?" 

"There'll  be  donkeys  at  the  fair,  eh?" 

"Donkeys — per  Dio!  Why,  last  year  there  were  over 
sixty,  and — " 

"  And  isn't  there  a  donkey  auction  sometimes,  towards 
the  end  of  the  day,  when  they  go  cheap?" 

"Si,  signore!     Si,  signore!" 

The  fisherman's  greedy  little  eyes  were  fixed  on  Mau- 
rice with  keen  interrogation. 

"  Don't  let  us  forget  that,"  Maurice  said,  returning  his 
gaze.  "You're  a  good  judge  of  a  donkey ?" 

Salvatore  laughed. 

"Per  Bacco!  There  won't  be  a  man  at  San  Felice 
that  can  beat  me  at  that!" 

"Then  perhaps  you  can  do  something  for  me.  Per- 
haps you  can  buy  me  a  donkey.  Didn't  I  speak  of  it 
before?" 

"Si,  signore.  For  the  signora  to  ride  when  she  comes 
back  from  Africa?" 

He  smiled. 

"  For  a  lady  to  ride,"  Maurice  answered,  looking  at 
Maddalena. 

Salvatore  made  a  clicking  noise  with  his  tongue,  a 
noise  that  suggested  eating.     Then  he  spat  vigorously 
and  took  from  his  jacket  -  pocket  a  long,  black  cigar. 
This  was  evidently  going  to  be  a  great  day  for  him. 
"Avanti,  signorino!     Avanti!" 

Gaspare  was  shouting  and  waving  his  hat  frantically 
from  the  road. 

is  267 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Come  along,  Maddalena!" 

They  left  the  beach  and  climbed  the  bank,  Maddalena 
walking  carefully  in  the  shining  shoes,  and  holding  her 
green  skirt  well  away  from  the  bushes  with  both  hands. 
Maurice  hurried  across  the  railway  line  without  looking 
at  it.  He  wanted  to  forget  it.  He  was  determined  to 
forget  it,  and  what  it  was  bringing  to  Cattaro  that  after- 
noon. They  reached  the  group  of  four  donkeys  which 
were  standing  patiently  in  the  dusty  white  road. 

"Mamma  mia!"  ejaculated  Gaspare,  as  Maddalena 
came  full  into  his  sight.  "Madre  mia!  But  you  are 
like  a  burgisa  dressed  for  the  wedding-day,  Donna  Mad- 
dalena!" 

He  wagged  his  head  at  her  till  the  big  roses  above  his 
ears  shook  like  flowers  in  a  wind. 

"Ora  basta,  ch'  e  tardu:  jamu  ad  accumpagnari  li 
Zitti!"  he  continued,  pronouncing  the  time-honored 
sentence  which,  at  a  rustic  wedding,  gives  the  signal  to 
the  musicians  to  stop  their  playing,  and  to  the  assem- 
bled company  the  hint  that  the  moment  has  come  to 
escort  the  bride  to  the  new  home  which  her  bridegroom 
has  prepared  for  her. 

Maddalena  laughed  and  blushed  all  over  her  face, 
and  Salvatore  shouted  out  a  verse  of  a  marriage  song 
in  high  favor  at  Sicilian  weddings: 

"E  cu  saluti  a  li  Zituzzi  novil 
Chi  bellu  'nguaggiamentu  furtunatu! 
Firma  la  menti,  custanti  hi  cori, 
E  si  cci  arriva  a  lu  jornu  biatu — " 

Meanwhile,  Maurice  helped  Maddalena  onto  her  don- 
key, and  paid  and  dismissed  the  boy  who  had  brought  it 
and  Salvatore's  beast  from  Marechiaro.  Then  he  took 
out  his  watch. 

"A  quarter-past  ten,"  he  said.  "Off  we  go!  Now, 
Gaspare — uno!  due!  tre!" 

They  leaped  simultaneously  onto  their  donkeys,  Sal- 
268 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

vatore  clambered  up  on  his,  and  the  little  cavalcade 
started  off  on  the  long,  white  road  that  ran  close  along 
the  sea,  Maddalena  and  Maurice  in  the  van,  Salvatore 
and  Gaspare  behind.  Just  at  first  they  all  kept  close 
together,  but  Sicilians  are  very  careful  of  their  festa 
clothes,  and  soon  Salvatore  and  Gaspare  dropped  far- 
ther behind  to  avoid  the  clouds  of  dust  stirred  up  by  the 
tripping  feet  of  the  donkeys  in  front.  Their  chattering 
voices  died  away,  and  when  Maurice  looked  back  he  saw 
them  at  a  distance  which  rendered  his  privacy  with 
Maddalena  more  complete  than  anything  he  had  dared 
to  hope  for  so  early  in  the  day.  Yet  now  that  they 
were  thus  alone  he  felt  as  if  he  had  nothing  to  say  to 
her.  He  did  not  feel  exactly  constrained,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  that,  to-day,  he  could  not  talk  the  familiar  com- 
monplaces to  her,  or  pay  her  obvious  compliments. 
They  might,  they  would  please  her,  but  something  in 
himself  would  resent  them.  This  was  to  be  such  a 
great  day.  He  had  wanted  it  with  such  ardor,  he  had 
been  so  afraid  of  missing  it,  he  had  gained  it  at  the  cost 
of  so  much  self-respect,  that  it  ought  to  be  extraordi- 
nary from  dawn  to  dark,  and  he  and  Maddalena  to  be 
unusual,  intense — something,  at  least,  more  eager,  more 
happy,  more  intimate  than  usual  in  it. 

And  then,  too,  as  he  looked  at  her  riding  along  by  the 
sea,  with  her  young  head  held  rather  high  and  a  smile 
of  innocent  pride  in  her  eyes,  he  remembered  that  this 
day  was  their  good-bye.  Maddalena  did  not  know  that. 
Probably  she  did  not  think  about  the  future.  But  he 
knew  it.  They  might  meet  again.  They  would  doubt- 
less meet  again.  But  it  would  all  be  different.  He 
would  be  a  serious  married  man,  who  could  no  longer 
frolic  as  if  he  were  still  a  boy  like  Gaspare.  This  was 
the  last  day  of  his  intimate  friendship  with  Maddalena. 

That  seemed  to  him  very  strange.  He  had  become 
accustomed  to  her  society,  to  her  naive  curiosity,  her 
girlish,  simple  gayety,  so  accustomed  to  it  all  that  he 
269 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

could  not  imagine  life  without  it,  could  scarcely  realize 
what  life  had  been  before  he  knew  Maddalena.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  must  have  always  known  Madda- 
lena. And  she — what  did  she  feel  about  that? 

"Maddalena!"  he  said. 

"Si,  signore." 

She  turned  her  head  and  glanced  at  him,  smiling,  as 
if  she  were  sure  of  hearing  something  pleasant.  To- 
day, in  her  pretty  festa  dress,  she  looked  intended  for 
happiness.  Everything  about  her  conveyed  the  sug- 
gestion that  she  was  expectant  of  joy.  The  expres- 
sion in  her  eyes  was  a  summons  to  the  world  to  be  very 
kind  and  good  to  her,  to  give  her  only  pleasant  things, 
things  that  could  not  harm  her. 

"Maddalena,  do  you  feel  as  if  you  had  known  me 
long?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"Si,  signore." 

"How  Icng?" 

She  spread  out  one  hand  with  the  fingers  held  apart. 

"Oh,  signore — but  always!  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known 
you  always." 

"And  yet  it's  only  a  few  days." 

"Si,  signore." 

She  acquiesced  calmly.  The  problem  did  not  seem 
to  puzzle  her,  the  problem  of  this  feeling  so  ill-founded. 
It  was  so.  Very  well,  then — so  it  was. 

"And,"  he  went  on,  "do  you  feel  as  if  you  would 
always  know  me?" 

"Si,  signore.     Of  course." 

"But  I  shall  go  away,  I  am  going  away." 

For  a  moment  her  face  clouded.  But  the  influence 
of  joy  was  very  strong  upon  her  to-day,  and  the  cloud 


"  But  you  will  come  back,  signorino.     You  will  always 
come  back." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 
270 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

A  pretty  slyness  crept  into  her  face,  showed  in  the 
curve  of  the  young  lips,  in  the  expression  of  the  young 
eyes. 

"Because  you  like  to  be  here,  because  you  like  the 
Siciliani.  Isn't  it  true?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  almost  passionately.  "It's  true! 
Ah,  Maddalena — 

But  at  this  moment  a  group  of  people  from  Marechiaro 
suddenly  appeared  upon  the  road  beside  them,  having 
descended  from  the  village  by  a  mountain-path.  There 
were  exclamations,  salutations.  Maddalena's  gown  was 
carefully  examined  by  the  women  of  the  party.  The  men 
exchanged  compliments  with  Maurice.  Then  Salvatore 
and  Gaspare,  seeing  friends,  came  galloping  up,  shout- 
ing, in  a  cloud  of  dust.  A  calvalcade  was  formed,  and 
henceforth  Maurice  was  unable  to  exchange  any  more 
confidences  with  Maddalena.  He  felt  vexed  at  first,  but 
the  boisterous  merriment  of  all  these  people,  their  glow- 
ing anticipation  of  pleasure,  soon  infected  him.  His 
heart  was  lightened  of  its  burden  and  the  spirit  of  the 
careless  boy  awoke  in  him.  He  would  take  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  he  would  be  able  to  take  no  thought  so 
long  as  he  was  in  this  jocund  company.  As  they  trotted 
forward  in  a  white  mist  along  the  shining  sea  Maurice 
was  one  of  the  gayest  among  them.  No  laugh  rang  out 
more  frequently  than  his,  no  voice  chatted  more  viva- 
ciously. The  conscious  effort  which  at  first  he  had  to 
make  seemed  to  give  him  an  impetus,  to  send  him  on- 
ward with  a  rush  so  that  he  outdistanced  his  com- 
panions. Had  any  one  observed  him  closely  during  that 
ride  to  the  fair  he  might  well  have  thought  that  here 
was  a  nature  given  over  to  happiness,  a  nature  that  was 
utterly  sunny  in  the  sun. 

They  passed  through  the  town  of  Cattaro,  where  was 
the  station  for  Marechiaro.  For  a  moment  Maurice  felt 
a  pang  of  self -contempt,  and  of  something  more,  of  some- 
thing that  was  tender,  pitiful  even,  as  he  thought  of 
271 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Hermione's  expectation  disappointed.  But  it  died  away, 
or  he  thrust  it  away.  The  long  street  was  full  of  peo- 
ple, either  preparing  to  start  for  the  fair  themselves 
or  standing  at  their  doors  to  watch  their  friends  start. 
Donkeys  were  being  saddled  and  decorated  with  flow- 
ers. Tall,  painted  carts  were  being  harnessed  to  mules. 
Visions  of  men  being  lathered  and  shaved,  of  wom- 
en having  their  hair  dressed  or  their  hair  searched,  Si- 
cilian fashion,  of  youths  trying  to  curl  upward  scarce- 
ly born  mustaches,  of  children  being  hastily  attired  in 
clothes  which  made  them  wriggle  and  squint,  came  to 
the  eyes  from  houses  in  which  privacy  was  not  so  much 
scorned  as  unthought  of,  utterly  unknown.  Turkeys 
strolled  in  and  out  among  the  toilet -makers.  Pigs  ac- 
companied their  mistresses  from  doorway  to  doorway 
as  dogs  accompany  the  women  of  other  countries.  And 
the  cavalcade  of  the  people  of  Marechiaro  was  hailed  from 
all  sides  with  pleasantries  and  promises  to  meet  at  the 
fair,  with  broad  jokes  or  respectful  salutations.  Many 
a  "Benedicite!"  or  "C'ci  basu  limano!"  greeted  Maurice. 
Many  a  berretto  was  lifted  from  heads  that  he  had  never 
seen  to  his  knowledge  before.  He  was  made  to  feel 
by  all  that  he  was  among  friends,  and  as  he  returned 
the  smiles  and  salutations  he  remembered  the  saying 
Hermione  had  repeated:  "Every  Sicilian,  even  if  he 
wears  a  long  cap  and  sleeps  in  a  hut  with  the  pigs,  is  a 
gentleman,"  and  he  thought  it  very  true. 

It  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  get  away  from  the 
street.  At  every  moment  they  halted.  One  man  begged 
them  to  wait  a  moment  till  his  donkey  was  saddled,  so 
that  he  might  join  them.  Another,  a  wine-shop  keeper, 
insisted  on  Maurice's  testing  his  moscato,  and  there- 
upon Maurice  felt  obliged  to  order  glasses  all  round,  to 
the  great  delight  of  Gaspare,  who  always  felt  himself 
to  be  glorified  by  the  generosity  of  his  padrone,  and 
who  promptly  took  the  proceedings  in  charge,  meas- 
ured out  the  wine  in  appropriate  quantities,  handed  it 
272 


THE   CALL   OF    THE   BLOOD 

about,  and  constituted  himself  master  of  the  ceremony. 
Already,  at  eleven  o'clock,  brindisi  were  invented,  and 
Maurice  was  called  upon  to  "drop  into  poetry."  Then 
Maddalena  caught  sight  of  some  girl  friends,  and  must 
needs  show  them  all  her  finery.  For  this  purpose  she 
solemnly  dismounted  from  her  donkey  to  be  closely 
examined  on  the  pavement,  turned  about,  shook  forth 
her  pea-green  skirt,  took  off  her  chain  for  more  minute 
inspection,  and  measured  the  silken  fringes  of  her  shawl 
in  order  to  compare  them  with  other  shawls  which  were 
hastily  brought  out  from  a  house  near-by. 

But  Gaspare,  always  a  little  ruthless  with  women, 
soon  tired  of  such  vanities. 

"Avanti!  Avanti!"  he  shouted.  "Dio  mio!  Le 
donne  sono  pazze!  Andiamo!  Andiamo!" 

He  hustled  Maddalena,  who  yielded,  blushing  and 
laughing,  to  his  importunities,  and  at  last  they  were 
really  off  again,  and  drowned  in  a  sea  of  odor  as  they 
passed  some  buildings  where  lemons  were  being  packed 
to  be  shipped  away  from  Sicily.  This  smell  seemed  to 
Maurice  to  be  the  very  breath  of  the  island.  He  drank 
it  in  eagerly.  Lemons,  lemons,  and  the  sun!  Oranges, 
lemons,  yellow  flowers  under  the  lemons,  and  the  sun! 
Always  yellow,  pale  yellow,  gold  yellow,  red-gold  yel- 
low, and  white,  and  silver-white,  the  white  of  the  roads, 
the  silver-white  of  dusty  olive  leaves,  and  green,  the  dark, 
lustrous,  polished  green  of  orange  leaves,  and  purple 
and  blue,  the  purple  of  sea,  the  blue  of  sky.  What  a 
riot  of  talk  it  was,  and  what  a  riot  of  color!  It  made 
Maurice  feel  almost  drunk.  It  was  heady,  this  island  of 
the  south — heady  in  the  summer-time.  It  had  a  power- 
ful influence,  an  influence  that  was  surely  an  excuse 
for  much.  Ah,  the  stay-at-homes,  who  condemned  the 
far-off  passions  and  violences  of  men!  What  did  they 
know  of  the  various  truths  of  the  world  ?  How  should 
one  in  Clapham  judge  one  at  the  fair  of  San  Felice? 
Avanti!  Avanti  I  Avanti  along  the  blinding  white  road 
273 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

by  the  sea,  to  the  village  on  which  great  Etna  looked 
down,  not  harshly  for  all  its  majesty.  Nature  under- 
stood. And  God,  who  made  Nature,  who  was  behind 
Nature — did  not  He  understand  ?  There  is  forgiveness 
surely  in  great  hearts,  though  the  small  hearts  have  no 
space  to  hold  it. 

Something  like  this  Maurice  thought  for  a  moment,  ere 
a  large  thoughtlessness  swept  over  him,  bred  of  the  sun 
and  the  odors,  the  movement,  the  cries  and  laughter  of 
his  companions,  the  gay  gown  and  the  happy  glances 
of  Maddalena,  even  of  the  white  dust  that  whirled  up 
from  the  feet  of  the  cantering  donkeys. 

And  so,  ever  laughing,  ever  joking,  gayly,  almost 
tumultuously,  they  rushed  upon  the  fair. 

San  Felice  is  a  large  village  in  the  plain  at  the  foot  of 
Etna.  It  lies  near  the  sea  between  Catania  and  Mes- 
sina, but  beyond  the  black  and  forbidding  lava  land.  Its 
patron  saint,  Protettore  di  San  Felice,  is  Sant'  Onofrio, 
and  this  was  his  festival.  In  the  large,  old  church  in 
the  square,  which  was  the  centre  of  the  life  of  the  fiera, 
his  image,  smothered  in  paint,  sumptuously  decorated 
with  red  and  gold  and  bunches  of  artificial  flowers,  was 
exposed  under  a  canopy  with  pillars;  and  thin  squares 
of  paper  reproducing  its  formal  charms — the  oval  face 
with  large  eyes  and  small,  straight  nose,  the  ample  fore- 
head, crowned  with  hair  that  was  brought  down  to  a 
point  in  the  centre,  the  undulating,  divided  beard  de- 
scending upon  the  breast,  one  hand  holding  a  book,  the 
other  upraised  in  a  blessing — were  sold  for  a  soldo  to 
all  who  would  buy  them. 

The  first  thing  the  party  from  Isola  Bella  and  from 
Marechiaro  did,  when  they  had  stabled  their  donkeys 
at  Don  Leontini's,  in  the  Via  Bocca  di  Leone,  was  to 
pay  the  visit  of  etiquette  to  Sant'  Onofrio.  Their  laugh- 
ter was  stilled  at  the  church  doorway,  through  which 
women  and  men  draped  in  shawls,  lads  and  little  chil- 
dren, were  coming  and  going.  Their  faces  assumed 
?74 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

expressions  of  superstitious  reverence  and  devotion. 
And,  going  up  one  by  one  to  the  large  image  of  the 
saint,  they  contemplated  it  with  awe,  touched  its  hand 
or  the  hem  of  its  robe,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
retreated,  feeling  that  they  were  blessed  for  the  day. 

Maddalena  approached  the  saint  with  Maurice  and 
Gaspare.  She  and  Gaspare  touched  the  hand  that  held 
the  book,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  then  stared  at  Mau- 
rice to  see  why  he  did  nothing.  He  quickly  followed 
their  example.  Maddalena,  who  was  pulling  some  of 
the  roses  from  her  tight  bouquet,  whispered  to  him: 

"Sant'  Onofrio  will  bring  us  good-fortune." 

"Davvero?"  he  whispered  back. 

"Si!   Si!"  said  Gaspare,  nodding  his  head. 

While  Maddalena  laid  her  flowers  upon  the  lap  of 
the  saint,  Gaspare  bought  from  a  boy  three  sheets  of 
paper  containing  Sant'  Onofrio 's  reproduction,  and  three 
more  showing  the  effigies  of  San  Filadelfo,  Sant'  Alfio, 
and  San  Cirino. 

"Ecco,  Donna  Maddalena!     Ecco,  signorino!" 

He  distributed  his  purchases,  keeping  two  for  him- 
self. These  last  he  very  carefully  and  solemnly  folded 
up  and  bestowed  in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  jacket, 
which  contained  a  leather  portfolio,  given  to  him  by 
Maurice  to  carry  his  money  in. 

"Ecco!"  he  said,  once  more,  as  he  buttoned  the  flap 
of  the  pocket  as  a  precaution  against  thieves. 

And  with  that  final  exclamation  he  dismissed  all 
serious  thoughts. 

"Mangiamo,  signorino!"  he  said.     "Ora  basta!" 

And  they  went  forth  into  the  sunshine.  Salvatore 
was  talking  to  some  fishermen  from  Catania  upon  the 
steps.  They  cast  curious  glances  at  Maurice  as  he  came 
out  with  Maddalena,  and,  when  Salvatore  went  off  with 
his  daughter  and  the  forestiere,  they  laughed  among 
themselves  and  exchanged  some  remarks  that  were  evi- 
dently merry.  But  Maurice  did  not  heed  them.  He 
275 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

was  not  a  self-conscious  man.  And  Maddalena  was  far 
too  happy  to  suppose  that  any  one  could  be  saying 
nasty  things  about  her. 

"Where  are  we  going  to  eat?"  asked  Maurice. 

"This  way,  this  way,  signorinol"  replied  Gaspare, 
elbowing  a  passage  through  the  crowd.  "You  must 
follow  me.  I  know  where  to  go.  I  have  many  friends 
here." 

The  truth  of  this  statement  was  speedily  made  mani- 
fest. Almost  every  third  person  they  met  saluted  Gas- 
pare, some  kissing  him  upon  both  cheeks,  others  grasp- 
ing his  hand,  others  taking  him  familiarly  by  the  arm. 
Among  the  last  was  a  tall  boy  with  jet-black,  curly  hair 
and  a  long,  pale  face,  whom  Gaspare  promptly  presented 
to  his  padrone,  by  the  name  of  Amedeo  Buccini. 

"Amedeo  is  a  parrucchiere,  signorino,"  he  said,  "and 
my  compare,  and  the  best  dancer  in  San  Felice.  May 
he  eat  with  us?" 

"Of  course." 

Gaspare  informed  Amedeo,  who  took  off  his  hat,  held 
it  in  his  hand,  and  smiled  all  over  his  face  with  pleasure. 

"Yes,  Gaspare  is  my  compare,  signore,"  he  affirmed. 
"Compare,  compare,  compareddu" — he  glanced  at  Gas- 
pare, who  joined  in  with  him: 

"Compare,  compare,  compareddu, 
lo  ti  voglio  molto  bene, 
Mangiamo  sempre  insieme — 
Mangiamo  carne  e  riso 
E  andiamo  in  Paradise!" 

"Carne  e  riso — si!"  cried  Maurice,  laughing.  "But 
Paradise!  Must  you  go  to  Paradise  directly  afterwards, 
before  the  dancing  and  before  the  procession  and  be- 
fore the  fireworks?" 

"No,  signore,"  said  Gaspare.     "When  we  are  very 
old,   when  we  cannot  dance  any  more — non  e  vero, 
Amedeo? — then  we  will  go  to  Paradiso.' 
276 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  tall  boy,  quite  seriously,  "then  we 
will  go  to  Paradise." 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Maurice;  "and  Maddalena,  but  not 
till  then." 

What  a  long  time  away  that  would  be! 

".Here  is  the  ristorante!" 

They  had  reached  a  long  room  with  doors  open  onto 
the  square,  opposite  to  the  rows  of  booths  which  were 
set  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  church.  Outside  of  it 
were  many  small  tables  and  numbers  of  chairs  on  which 
people  were  sitting,  contemplating  the  movement  of  the 
crowd  of  buyers  and  sellers,  smoking,  drinking  syrups, 
gazzosa,  and  eating  ices  and  flat  biscuits. 

Gaspare  guided  them  through  the  throng  to  a  long 
table  set  on  a  sanded  floor. 

"Ecco,  signorino!" 

He  installed  Maurice  at  the  top  of  the  table. 

"And  you  sit  here,  Donna  Maddalena." 

He  placed  her  at  Maurice's  right  hand,  and  was  going 
to  sit  down  himself  on  the  left,  when  Salvatore  roughly 
pushed  in  before  him,  seized  the  chair,  sat  in  it,  and 
leaned  his  arms  on  the  table  with  a  loud  laugh  that 
sounded  defiant.  An  ugly  look  came  into  Gaspare's 
face. 

"Macche — "  he  began,  angrily. 

But  Maurice  silenced  him  with  a  quick  look. 

"Gaspare,  you  come  here,  by  Maddalena!" 

"Ma—" 

"Come  along,  Gasparino,  and  tell  us  what  we  are  to 
have.  You  must  order  everything.  Where's  the  ca- 
meriere?  Cameriere!  Cameriere!" 

He  struck  on  his  glass  with  a  fork.  A  waiter  came 
running. 

"Don  Gaspare  will  order  for  us  all,"  said  Maurice  to 
him,  pointing  to  Gaspare. 

His  diplomacy  was  successful.  Gaspare's  face  cleared, 
and  in  a  moment  he  was  immersed  in  an  eager  colloquy 
277 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

with  the  waiter,  another  friend  of  his  from  Marechiaro. 
Amedeo  Buccini  took  a  place  by  Gaspare,  and  all  those 
from  Marechiaro,  who  evidently  considered  that  they 
belonged  to  the  Inglese's  party  for  the  day,  arranged 
themselves  as  they  pleased  and  waited  anxiously  for  the 
coming  of  the  macaroni. 

A  certain  formality  now  reigned  over  the  assembly. 
The  movement  of  the  road  in  the  outside  world  by  the 
sea  had  stirred  the  blood,  had  loosened  tongues  and 
quickened  spirits.  But  a  meal  in  a  restaurant,  with 
a  rich  English  signore  presiding  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  was  an  unaccustomed  ceremony.  Dark  faces 
that  had  been  lit  up  with  laughter  now  looked  almost 
ludicrously  discreet.  Brown  hands  which  had  been 
in  constant  activity,  talking  as  plainly,  and  more  ex- 
pressively, than  voices,  now  lay  limply  upon  the  white 
cloth  or  were  placed  upon  knees  motionless  as  the  knees 
of  statues.  And  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  giver 
of  the  feast,  mutely  demanding  of  him  a  signal  of  con- 
duct to  guide  his  inquiring  guests.  But  Maurice,  too,  felt 
for  the  moment  tongue-tied.  He  was  very  sensitive  to 
influences,  and  his  present  position,  between  Madda- 
lena  and  her  father,  created  within  him  a  certain  con- 
fusion of  feelings,  an  odd  sensation  of  being  between 
two  conflicting  elements.  He  was  conscious  of  affecr 
tion  and  of  enmity,  both  close  to  him,  both  strong,  the 
one  ready  to  show  itself,  the  other  determined  to  re- 
main in  hiding.  He  glanced  at  Salvatore,  and  met  the 
fisherman's  keen  gaze.  Behind  the  instant  smile  in 
the  glittering  eyes  he  divined,  rather  than  saw,  the 
shadow  of  his  hatred.  And  for  a  moment  he  wondered. 
Why  should  Salvatore  hate  him?  It  was  reasonable 
to  hate  a  man  for  a  wrong  done,  even  for  a  wrong  de- 
liberately contemplated  with  intention — the  intention 
of  committing  it.  But  he  had  done  no  real  wrong  to 
Salvatore.  Nor  had  he  any  evil  intention  with  regard 
to  him  or  his.  So  far  he  had  only  brought  pleasure 
278 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

into  their  lives,  his  life  and  Maddalena's — pleasure  and 
money.  If  there  had  been  any  secret  pain  engendered 
by  their  mutual  intercourse  it  was  his.  And  this  day 
was  the  last  of  their  intimacy,  though  Salvatore  and 
Maddalena  did  not  know  it.  Suddenly  a  desire,  an 
almost  weak  desire,  came  to  him  to  banish  Salvatore's 
distrust  of  him,  a  distrust  which  he  was  more  conscious 
of  at  this  moment  than  ever  before. 

He  did  not  know  of  the  muttered  comments  of  the 
fishermen  from  Catania  as  he  and  Maddalena  passed 
down  the  steps  of  the  church  of  Sant'  Onofrio.  But 
Salvatore's  sharp  ears  had  caught  them  and  the  laugh- 
ter that  followed  them,  and  his  hot  blood  was  on  fire. 
The  words,  the  laughter  had  touched  his  sensitive  Si- 
cilian pride — the  pride  of  the  man  who  means  never  to 
be  banished  from  the  Piazza — as  a  knife  touches  a  raw 
wound.  And  as  Maurice  had  set  a  limit  to  his  sinning 
— his  insincerity  to  Hermione,  his  betrayal  of  her  com- 
plete trust  in  him,  nothing  more — so  Salvatore  now, 
while  he  sat  at  meat  with  the  Inglese,  mentally  put  a 
limit  to  his  own  complaisance,  a  complaisance  which  had 
been  born  of  his  intense  avarice.  To-day  he  would  get 
all  he  could  out  of  the  Inglese — money,  food,  wine,  a 
donkey  —  who  knew  what?  And  then  —  good-bye  to 
soft  speeches.  Those  fishermen,  his  friends,  his  com- 
rades, his  world,  in  fact,  should  have  their  mouths  shut 
once  for  all.  He  knew  how  to  look  after  his  girl,  and 
they  should  know  that  he  knew,  they  and  all  Marechiaro, 
and  all  San  Felice,  and  all  Cattaro.  His  limit,  like  Mau- 
rice's, was  that  day  of  the  fair,  and  it  was  nearly  reached. 
For  the  hours  were  hurrying  towards  the  night  and  fare- 
wells. 

Moved  by  his  abrupt  desire  to  stand  well  with  every- 
body during  this  last  festa,  Maurice  began  to  speak  to 
Salvatore  of  the  donkey  auction.  When  would  it  begin  ? 

"Chi  lo  sa?" 

No  one  knew.  In  Sicily  all  feasts  are  movable. 
279 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Even  mass  may  begin  an  hour  too  late  or  an  hour  too 
early.  One  thought  the  donkey  auction  would  start 
at  fourteen,  another  at  sixteen  o'clock.  Gaspare  was 
imperiously  certain,  over  the  macaroni,  which  had  now 
made  its  appearance,  that  the  hour  was  seventeen. 
There  were  to  be  other  auctions,  auctions  of  wonderful 
things.  A  clock  that  played  music  —  the  "Marcia 
Reale"  and  the  "Tre  Colori" — was  to  be  put  up;  suits 
of  clothes,  too;  boots,  hats,  a  chair  that  rocked  like  a 
boat  on  the  sea,  a  revolver  ornamented  with  ivory. 
Already — no  one  knew  when,  for  no  one  had  missed 
him  —  he  had  been  to  view  these  treasures.  As  he 
spoke  of  them  tongues  were  loosed  and  eyes  shone 
with  excitement.  Money  was  in  the  air.  Prices  were 
passionately  discussed,  values  debated.  All  down  the 
table  went  the  words  "soldi,"  "lire,"  "lire  sterline," 
"biglietti  da  cinque,"  biglietti  da  dieci."  Salvatore's 
hatred  died  away,  suffocated  for  the  moment  under  the 
weight  of  his  avarice.  A  donkey — yes,  he  meant  to  get 
a  donkey  with  the  stranger's  money.  But  why  stop 
there?  Why  not  have  the  clock  and  the  rocking-chair 
and  the  revolver?  His  sharpness  of  the  Sicilian,  a 
sharpness  almost  as  keen  and  sure  as  that  of  the  Arab, 
divined  the  intensity,  the  recklessness  alive  in  the 
Englishman  to-day,  bred  of  that  limit,  "my  last  day 
of  the  careless  life,"  to  which  his  own  limit  was  twin- 
brother,  but  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  And  as  Maurice 
was  intense  to-day,  because  there  were  so  few  hours  left 
to  him  for  intensity,  so  was  Salvatore  intense  in  a  dif- 
ferent way,  but  for  a  similar  reason.  They  were  walk- 
ing in  step  without  being  aware  of  it.  Or  were  they  not 
rather  racing  neck  to  neck,  like  passionate  opponents  ? 

There  was  little  time.  Then  they  must  use  what 
there  was  to  the  full.  They  must  not  let  one  single 
moment  find  them  lazy,  indifferent. 

Under  the  cover  of  the  flood  of  talk  Maurice  turned 
to  Maddajena.  She  was  taking  no  part  in  it,  but  was 
280 


AM    CONTENT    WITHOUT    ANYTHING,    SIGNORINO.'    SHE    SAID 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

eating  her  macaroni  gently,  as  if  it  were  a  new  and 
wonderful  food.  So  Maurice  thought  as  he  looked  at  her. 
To-day  there  was  something  strange,  almost  pathetic,  to 
him  in  Maddalena,  a  softness,  an  innocent  refinement 
that  made  him  imagine  her  in  another  life  than  hers, 
and  with  other  companions,  in  a  life  as  free  but  less 
hard,  with  companions  as  natural  but  less  ruthless  to 
women. 

"Maddalena,"  he  said  to  her.  "They  all  want  to 
buy  things  at  the  auction." 

"Si,  signore." 

"And  you?" 

"I,  signorino?" 

"Yes,  don't  you  want  to  buy  something?" 

He  was  testing  her,  testing  her  memory.  She  looked  at 
him  above  her  fork,  from  which  the  macaroni  streamed 
down. 

"  I  am  content  without  anything,  signorino,"  she  said. 

"Without  the  blue  dress  and  the  ear-rings,  longer 
than  that?"  He  measured  imaginary  ear-rings  in  the 
air.  "Have  you  forgotten,  Maddalena?" 

She  blushed  and  bent  over  her  plate.  She  had  not 
forgotten.  All  the  day  since  she  rose  at  dawn  she 
had  been  thinking  of  Maurice's  old  promise.  But  she  did 
not  know  that  he  remembered  it,  and  his  remembrance 
of  it  came  to  her  now  as  a  lovely  surprise.  He  bent  his 
head  down  nearer  to  her. 

"When  they  are  all  at  the  auction,  we  will  go  to  buy 
the  blue  dress  and  the  ear-rings,"  he  almost  whispered. 
"  We  will  go  by  ourselves.  Shall  we  ?" 

"Si,  signore." 

Her  voice  was  very  small  and  her  cheeks  still  held 
their  flush.  She  glanced,  with  eyes  that  were  un- 
usually conscious,  to  right  and  left  of  her,  to  see  if  the 
neighbors  had  noticed  their  colloquy.  And  that  look 
of  consciousness  made  Maurice  suddenly  understand  that 
this  limit  which  he  had  put  to  his  sinning — so  he  had 
281 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

called  it  with  a  sort  of  angry  mental  sincerity,  sum- 
moned, perhaps,  to  match  the  tremendous  sincerity  of 
his  wife  which  he  was  meeting  with  a  lie  to-day — his 
sinning  against  Hermione  was  also  a  limit  to  something 
else.  Had  he  not  sinned  against  Maddalena,  sinned 
when  he  had  kissed  her,  when  he  had  shown  her  that 
he  delighted  to  be  with  her?  Was  he  not  sinning  now 
when  he  promised  to  buy  for  her  the  most  beautiful 
things  of  the  fair?  For  a  moment  he  thought  to  him- 
self that  his  fault  against  Maddalena  was  more  grave, 
more  unforgivable  than  his  fault  against  Hermione. 
But  then  a  sudden  anger  that  was  like  a  storm,  against 
his  own  condemnation  of  himself,  swept  through  him. 
He  had  come  out  to-day  to  be  recklessly  happy,  and 
here  he  was  giving  himself  up  to  gloom,  to  absurd  self- 
torture.  Where  was  his  natural  careless  tempera- 
ment? To-day  his  soul  was  full  of  shadows,  like  the 
soul  of  a  man  going  to  meet  a  doom. 

"Where's  the  wine?"  he  called  to  Gaspare.  "Wine, 
cameriere,  wine!" 

"You  must  not  drink  wine  with  the  pasta,  signo- 
rino!"  cried  Gaspare.  "Only  afterwards,  with  the  vi- 
tello." 

"Have  you  ordered  vitello?  Capital!  But  I've  fin- 
ished my  pasta  and  I'm  thirsty.  Well,  what  do  you 
want  to  buy  at  the  auction,  Gaspare,  and  you,  Amedeo, 
and  you  Salvatore?" 

He  plunged  into  the  talk  and  made  Salvatore  show 
his  keen  desires,  encouraging  and  playing  with  his 
avarice,  now  holding  it  off  for  a  moment,  then  coaxing 
it  as  one  coaxes  an  animal,  stroking  it,  tempting  it  to 
a  forward  movement.  The  wine  went  round  now,  for 
the  vitello  was  on  the  table,  and  the  talk  grew  more 
noisy,  the  laughter  louder.  Outside,  too,  the  move- 
ment and  the  tumult  of  the  fair  were  increasing.  Cries 
of  men  selling  their  wares  rose  up,  the  hard  melodies 
of  a  piano-organ,  and  a  strange  and  ecclesiastical  chant 
282 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

sung  by  three  voices  that,  repeated  again  and  again,  at 
last  attracted  Maurice's  attention. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  of  Gaspare.  "Are  those 
priests  chanting?" 

"Priests!     No,  signore.     Those  are  the  Romani." 

"Romans  here!     What  are  they  doing?" 

"They  have  a  cart  decorated  with  flags,  signorino, 
and  they  are  selling  lemon-water  and  ices.  All  the  peo- 
ple say  that  they  are  Romans  and  that  is  how  they 
sing  in  Rome." 

The  long  and  lugubrious  chant  of  the  ice-venders  rose 
up  again,  strident  and  melancholy  as  a  song  chanted 
over  a  corpse. 

"  It's  funny  to  sing  like  that  to  sell  ices,"  Maurice  said. 
"It  sounds  like  men  at  a  funeral." 

"Oh,  they  are  very  good  ices,  signorino.  The  Ro- 
mans make  splendid  ices." 

Turkey  followed  the  vitello. 

Maurice's  guests  were  now  completely  at  ease  and  per- 
fectly happy.  The  consciousness  that  all  this  was  go- 
ing to  be  paid  for,  that  they  would  not  have  to  put 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  for  a  soldo,  warmed  their 
hearts  as  the  wine  warmed  their  bodies.  Amedeo's 
long,  white  face  was  becoming  radiant,  and  even  Salva- 
tore  softened  towards  the  Inglese.  A  sort  of  respect, 
almost  furtive,  came  to  him  for  the  wealth  that  could 
carelessly  entertain  this  crowd  of  people,  that  could  buy 
clocks,  chairs,  donkeys  at  pleasure,  and  scarcely  know 
that  soldi  were  gone,  scarcely  miss  them.  As  he  at- 
tacked his  share  of  the  turkey  vigorously,  picking  up 
the  bones  with  his  ringers  and  tearing  the  flesh  away 
with  his  white  teeth,  he  tried  to  realize  what  such 
wealth  must  mean  to  the  possessor  of  it,  an  effort  con- 
tinually made  by  the  sharp-witted,  very  poor  man. 
And  this  wealth — for  the  moment  some  of  it  was  at  his 
command!  To  ask  to-day  would  be  to  have.  In- 
stinctively he  knew  that,  and  felt  like  one  with  money 

19  283 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

in  the  bank.  If  only  it  might  be  so  to-morrow  and  for 
many  days!  He  began  to  regret  the  limit,  almost  to 
forget  the  sound  of  the  laughter  of  the  Catania  fisher- 
men upon  the  steps  of  the  church  of  Sant'  Onofrio.  His 
pride  was  going  to  sleep,  and  his  avarice  was  opening  its 
eyes  wider. 

When  the  meal  was  over  they  went  out  onto  the 
pavement  to  take  coffee  in  the  open  air.  The  throng 
was  much  greater  than  it  had  been  when  they  entered, 
for  people  were  continually  arriving  from  the  more  dis- 
tant villages,  and  two  trains  had  come  in  from  Messina 
and  Catania.  It  was  difficult  to  find  a  table.  Indeed, 
it  might  have  been  impossible  had  not  Gaspare  ruth- 
lessly dislodged  a  party  of  acquaintances  who  were  com- 
fortably established  around  one  in  a  prominent  position. 

"  I  must  have  a  table  for  my  padrone,"  he  said.  "  Go 
along  with  you!" 

And  they  meekly  went,  smiling,  and  without  ill-will — 
indeed,  almost  as  if  they  had  received  a  compliment. 

"But,  Gaspare,"  began  Maurice,  "I  can't — " 

"  Here  is  a  chair  for  you,  signorino.     Take  it  quickly." 

"At  any  rate,  let  us  offer  them  something." 

"Much  better  spare  your  soldi  now,  signorino,  and 
buy  something  at  the  auction.  That  clock  plays  the 
'Tre  Colori'  just  like  a  band." 

"Buy  it.     Here  is  some  money," 

He  thrust  some  notes  into  the  boy's  ready  hand. 

"Grazie,  signorino.     Ecco  la  musica!" 

In  the  distance  there  rose  the  blare  of  a  processional 
march  from  "A'ida,"  and  round  the  corner  of  the  Via 
di  Polifemo  came  a  throng  of  men  and  boys  in  dark 
uniforms,  with  epaulets  and  cocked  hats  with  flying 
plumes,  blowing  with  all  their  might  into  wind  instru- 
ments of  enormous  size. 

"That  is  the  musica  of  the  citta,  signore,"  explained 
Amedeo.     "Afterwards  there  will  be  the  Musica  Mas- 
cagni  and  the  Musica  Leoncavallo." 
284 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Mamma  mia!     And  will  they  all  play  together?" 

"No,  signore.  They  have  quarrelled.  At  Pasqua  we 
had  no  music,  and  the  archpriest  was  hooted  by  all  in 
the  Piazza." 

"Why?" 

"Non  lo  so.  I  think  he  had  forbidden  the  Musica 
Mascagni  to  play  at  Madre  Lucia's  funeral,  and  the 
Musica  Mascagni  went  to  fight  with  the  Musica  della 
citta.  To-day  they  will  all  play,  because  it  is  the  festa 
of  the  Santo  Patrono,  but  even  for  him  they  will  not 
play  together." 

The  bandsmen  had  now  taken  their  places  upon  a 
wooden  dais  exactly  opposite  to  the  restaurant,  and 
were  indulging  in  a  military  rendering  of  "  Celeste  Aida," 
which  struck  most  of  the  Sicilians  at  the  small  tables 
to  a  reverent  silence.  Maddalena's  eyes  had  become 
almost  round  with  pleasure,  Gaspare  was  singing  the 
air  frankly  with  Amedeo,  and  even  Salvatore  seemed 
soothed  and  humanized,  as  he  sipped  his  coffee,  puffed 
at  a  thin  cigar,  and  eyed  the  women  who  were  slowly 
sauntering  up  and  down  to  show  their  finery.  At  the 
windows  of  most  of  the  neighboring  houses  appeared 
parties  of  dignified  gazers,  important  personages  of  the 
town,  who  owned  small  balconies  commanding  the 
piazza,  and  who  now  stepped  forth  upon  these  coigns 
of  vantage,  and  leaned  upon  the  rails  that  they  might 
see  and  be  seen  by  the  less  favored  ones  below.  Amedeo 
and  Gaspare  began  to  name  these  potentates.  The 
stout  man  with  a  gray  mustache,  white  trousers,  and  a 
plaid  shawl  over  his  shoulders  was  Signor  Torloni,  the 
syndic  of  San  Felice.  The  tall,  angry  -  looking  gentle- 
man, with  bulging,  black  eyes  and  wrinkled  cheeks,  was 
Signor  Carata,  the  avvocato;  and  the  lady  in  black  and 
a  yellow  shawl  was  his  wife,  who  was  the  daughter  of 
the  syndic.  Close  by  was  Signorina  Maria  Sacchetti, 
the  beauty  of  San  Felice,  already  more  than  plump,  but 
with  a  good  complexion,  and  hair  so  thick  that  it  stood 
285 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

out  from  her  satisfied  face  as  if  it  were  trained  over  a 
trellis.  She  wore  white,  and  long,  thread  gloves  which 
went  above  her  elbows.  Maddalena  regarded  her  with 
awe  when  Amedeo  mentioned  a  rumor  that  she  was 
going  to  be  "promised"  to  Dr.  Marinelli,  who  was  to 
be  seen  at  her  side,  wearing  a  Gibus  hat  and  curling  a 
pair  of  gigantic  black  mustaches. 

Maurice  listened  to  the  music  and  the  chatter  which, 
silenced  by  the  arrival  of  the  music,  had  now  burst 
forth  again,  with  rather  indifferent  ears.  He  wanted  to 
get  away  somewhere  and  to  be  alone  with  Maddalena. 
The  day  was  passing  on.  Soon  night  would  be  falling. 
The  fair  would  be  at  an  end.  Then  would  come  the 
ride  back,  and  then —  But  he  did  not  care  to  look 
forward  into  that  future.  He  had  not  done  so  yet. 
He  would  not  do  so  now.  It  would  be  better,  when  the 
time  came,  to  rush  upon  it  blindly.  Preparation,  fore- 
thought, would  only  render  him  unnatural.  And  he 
must  seem  natural,  utterly  natural,  in  his  insincere  sur- 
prise, in  his  insincere  regret. 

"Pay  for  the  coffee,  Gaspare,"  he  said,  giving  the 
boy  some  money.  "Now  I  want  to  walk  about  and 
see  everything.  Where  are  the  donkeys?" 

He  glanced  at  Salvatore. 

"Oh,  signore,"  said  Gaspare,  "they  are  outside  the 
town  in  the  watercourse  that  runs  under  the  bridge — 
you  know,  that  broke  down  this  spring  where  the  line 
is?  They  have  only  just  finished  mending  it." 

"I  remember  your  telling  me." 

"And  you  were  so  glad  the  signora  was  travelling  the 
other  way." 

"Yes,  yes." 

He  spoke  hastily.     Salvatore  was  on  his  feet. 

"What  hour  have  we?" 

Maurice  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Half -past    two    already!     I    say,   Salvatore,   you 
mustn't  forget  the  donkeys." 
286 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Salvatore  came  close  up  to  him. 

"Signore,"  he  began,  in  a  low  voice,  "what  do  you 
wish  me  to  do?" 

"Bid  for  a  good  donkey." 

"Si,  signore." 

"For  the  best  donkey  they  put  up  for  sale." 

Salvatore  began  to  look  passionately  eager. 

"Si,  signore.     And  if  I  get  it?" 

"Come  to  me  and  I  will  give  you  the  money  to 
pay." 

"Si,  signore.     How  high  shall  I  go?" 

Gaspare  was  listening  intently,  with  a  hard  face  and 
sullen  eyes.  His  whole  body  seemed  to  be  disapproving 
what  Maurice  was  doing.  But  he  said  nothing.  Per- 
haps he  felt  that  to-day  it  would  be  useless  to  try  to 
govern  the  actions  of  his  padrone. 

"How  high?  Well" — Maurice  felt  that,  before  Gas- 
pare, he  must  put  a  limit  to  his  price,  though  he  did  not 
care  what  it  was — "say  a  hundred.  Here,  I'll  give  it 
you  now." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  his 
portfolio. 

"There's  the  hundred." 

Salvatore  took  it  eagerly,  spread  it  over  his  hand, 
stared  at  it,  then  folded  it  with  fingers  that  seemed  for 
the  moment  almost  delicate,  and  put  it  into  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  jacket.  He  meant  to  go  presently  and 
show  it  to  the  fishermen  of  Catania,  who  had  laughed 
upon  the  steps  of  the  church,  and  explain  matters  to 
them  a  little.  They  thought  him  a  fool.  Well,  he 
would  soon  make  them  understand  who  was  the  fool. 

"Grazie,  signore!" 

He  said  it  through  his  teeth.  Maurice  turned  to  Gas- 
pare. He  felt  the  boy's  stern  disapproval  of  what  he 
had  done,  and  wanted,  if  possible,  to  make  amends. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  "here  is  a  hundred  lire  for  you. 
I  want  you  to  go  to  the  auction  and  to  bid  for  anything 
287 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

you  think  worth  having.  Buy  something  for  your 
mother  and  father,  for  the  house,  some  nice  things!" 

"Grazie,  signore." 

He  took  the  note,  but  without  alacrity,  and  his  face 
was  still  lowering. 

"And  you,  signore?"  he  asked. 

"I?" 

"Yes.  Are  you  not  coming  with  me  to  the  auction? 
It  will  be  better  for  you  to  be  there  to  choose  the  things." 

For  an  instant  Maurice  felt  irritated.  Was  he  never 
to  be  allowed  a  moment  alone  with  Maddalena  ? 

"Oh,  but  I'm  no  good  at — "  he  began. 

Then  he  stopped.  To-day  he  must  be  birbante — on 
his  guard.  Once  the  auction  was  in  full  swing — so  he 
thought — Salvatore  and  Gaspare  would  be  as  they  were 
when  they  gambled  beside  the  sea.  They  would  forget 
everything.  It  would  be  easy  to  escape.  But  till  that 
moment  came  he  must  be  cautious. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  he  exclaimed,  heartily.  "But 
you  must  do  the  bidding,  Gaspare." 

The  boy  looked  less  sullen. 

"Va  bene,  signorino.  I  shall  know  best  what  the 
things  are  worth.  And  Salvatore" — he  glanced  vicious- 
ly at  the  fisherman — "can  go  to  the  donkeys.  I  have 
seen  them.  They  are  poor  donkeys  this  year." 

Salvatore  returned  his  vicious  glance  and  said  some- 
thing in  dialect  which  Maurice  did  not  understand.  Gas- 
pare's face  flushed,  and  he  was  about  to  burst  into  an 
angry  reply  when  Maurice  touched  his  arm. 

"Come  along,  Gaspare!" 

As  they  got  up,  he  whispered: 

"Remember  what  I  said  about  to-day!" 

"Macche— " 

Maurice  closed  his  fingers  tightly  on  Gaspare's  arm. 

"Gaspare,  you  must  remember!  Afterwards  what 
you  like,  but  not  to-day.  Andiamo!" 

They  all  got  up.  The  Musica  della  citta  was  now 
288 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

playing  a  violent  jig,  undoubtedly  composed  by  Bellini, 
who  was  considered  almost  as  a  child  of  San  Felice, 
having  been  born  close  by  at  Catania. 

"  Where  are  the  women  in  the  wonderful  blue  dresses  ?" 
Maurice  asked,  as  they  stepped  into  the  road;  "and  the 
ear-rings?  I  haven't  seen  them  yet." 

"They  will  come  towards  evening,  signorino,"  re- 
plied Gaspare,  "when  it  gets  cool.  They  do  not  care 
to  be  in  the  sun  dressed  like  that.  It  might  spoil  their 
things." 

Evidently  the  promenade  of  these  proud  beauties  was 
an  important  function. 

"We  must  not  miss  them,"  Maurice  said  to  Mad- 
dalena. 

She  looked  conscious. 

"No,  signore." 

"They  will  all  be  here  this  evening,  signore,"  said 
Amedeo,  "for  the  giuochi  di  fuoco." 

"The  giuochi  di  fuoco — they  will  be  at  the  end?" 

"Si,  signore.  After  the  giuochi  di  fuoco  it  is  all  fin- 
ished." 

Maurice  stifled  a  sigh.  "  It  is  all  finished,"  Amedeo  had 
said.  But  for  him?  For  him  there  would  be  the  ride 
home  up  the  mountain,  the  arrival  upon  the  terrace 
before  the  house  of  the  priest.  At  what  hour  would  he 
be  there?  It  would  be  very  late,  perhaps  nearly  at 
dawn,  in  the  cold,  still,  sad  hour  when  vitality  is  at 
its  lowest.  And  Hermione?  Would  she  be  sleeping? 
How  would  they  meet  ?  How  would  he —  ? 

"Andiamo!     Andiamo!" 

He  cried  out  almost  angrily. 

"Which  is  the  way?" 

"All  the  auctions  are  held  outside  the  town,  signore," 
said  Amedeo.  "Follow  me." 

Proudly  he  took  the  lead,  glad  to  be  useful  and  im- 
portant after  the  benefits  that  had  been  bestowed  upon 
him,  and  hoping  secretly  that  perhaps  the  rich  Inglese 
289 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

would  give  him  something  to  spend,  too,  since  money 
was  so  plentiful  for  donkeys  and  clocks. 

"They  are  in  the  flume,  near  the  sea  and  the  railway 
line." 

The  railway  line!  When  he  heard  that  Maurice  had 
a  moment's  absurd  sensation  of  reluctance,  a  desire  to 
hold  back,  such  as  comes  to  a  man  who  is  unexpectedly 
asked  to  confront  some  danger.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
if  he  went  to  the  watercourse  he  might  be  seen  by  Her- 
mione  and  Artois  as  they  passed  by  on  their  way  to 
Marechiaro.  But  of  course  they  were  coming  from  Mes- 
sina! What  a  fool  he  was  to-day!  His  recklessness 
seemed  to  have  deserted  him  just  when  he  wanted  it 
most.  To-day  he  was  not  himself.  He  was  a  coward. 
What  it  was  that  made  him  a  coward  he  did  not  tell 
himself. 

"Then  we  can  all  go  together,"  he  said.  "Salvatore 
and  all." 

"Si,  signore." 

Salvatore's  voice  was  close  at  his  ear,  and  he  knew  by 
the  sound  of  it  that  the  fisherman  was  smiling. 

"We  can  all  keep  together,  signore;  then  we  shall  be 
more  gay." 

They  threaded  their  way  through  the  throng.  The 
violent  jig  of  Bellini  died  away  gradually,  till  it  was 
faint  in  the  distance.  At  the  end  of  the  narrow  street 
Maurice  saw  the  large  bulk  of  Etna.  On  this  clear  after- 
noon it  looked  quite  close,  almost  as  if,  when  they  got 
out  of  the  street,  they  would  be  at  its  very  foot,  and 
would  have  to  begin  to  climb.  Maurice  remembered  his 
wild  longing  to  carry  Maddalena  off  upon  the  sea,  or  to 
some  eyrie  in  the  mountains,  to  be  alone  with  her  in 
some  savage  place.  Why  not  give  all  these  people  the 
slip  now — somehow — when  the  fun  of  the  fair  was  at 
its  height,  mount  the  donkeys  and  ride  straight  for  the 
huge  mountain?  There  were  caverns  there  and  deso- 
late lava  wastes;  there  were  almost  impenetrable  beech 
290 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

forests.  Sebastiano  had  told  him  tales  of  them,  those 
mighty  forests  that  climbed  up  to  green  lawns  looking 
down  upon  the  Lipari  Isles.  He  thought  of  their  silence 
and  their  shadows,  their  beds  made  of  the  drifted  leaves 
of  the  autumn.  There,  would  be  no  disturbance,  no 
clashing  of  wills  and  of  interests,  but  calm  and  silence 
and  the  time  to  love.  He  glanced  at  Maddalena.  He 
could  hardly  help  imagining  that  she  knew  what  he  was 
thinking  of.  Salvatore  had  dropped  behind  for  a  mo- 
ment. Maurice  did  not  know  it,  but  the  fisherman  had 
caught  sight  of  his  comrades  of  Catania  drinking  in  a 
roadside  wine-shop,  and  had  stopped  to  show  them  the 
note  for  a  hundred  francs,  and  to  make  them  understand 
the  position  of  affairs  between  him  and  the  forestiere. 
Gaspare  was  talking  eagerly  to  Amedeo  about  the  things 
that  were  likely  to  be  put  up  for  sale  at  the  auction. 

"Maddalena,"  Maurice  said  to  the  girl,  in  a  low  voice, 
"can  you  guess  what  I  am  thinking  about?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  signore." 

"You  see  the  mountain!" 

He  pointed  to  the  end  of  the  little  street. 

"Si,  signore." 

"I  am  thinking  that  I  should  like  to  go  there  now 
with  you." 

"Ma,  signorino — the  fiera!" 

Her  voice  sounded  plaintive  with  surprise  and  she 
glanced  at  her  pea-green  skirt. 

"And  this,  signorino!" — she  touched  it  carefully  with 
her  slim  fingers.  "How  could  I  go  in  this?" 

"When  the  fair  is  over,  then,  and  you  are  in  your 
every-day  gown,  Maddalena,  I  should  like  to  cany  you 
off  to  Etna." 

"They  say  there  are  briganti  there." 

"Brigands — would  you  be  afraid  of  them  with  me?" 

"  I  don't  know,  signore.  But  what  should  we  do  there 
on  Etna  far  away  from  the  sea  and  from  Marechiaro?" 
291 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"We  should" — he  whispered  in  her  ear,  seizing  this 
chance  almost  angrily,  almost  defiantly,  with  the  thought 
of  Salvatore  in  his  mind — "we  should  love  each  other, 
Maddalena.  It  is  quiet  in  the  beech  forests  on  Etna. 
No  one  would  come  to  disturb  us,  and — " 

A  chuckle  close  to  his  ear  made  him  start.  Salva- 
tore's  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  Salvatore's  face,  look- 
ing wily  and  triumphant,  was  close  to  his. 

"  Gaspare  was  wrong,  there  are  splendid  donkeys  here. 
I  have  been  talking  to  some  friends  who  have  seen  them." 

There  was  a  tramp  of  heavy  boots  on  the  stones  be- 
hind them.  The  fishermen  from  Catania  were  coming 
to  see  the  fun.  Salvatore  was  in  glory.  To  get  all  and 
give  nothing  was,  in  his  opinion,  to  accomplish  the  legiti- 
mate aim  of  a  man's  life.  And  his  friends,  those  who 
had  dared  to  sneer  and  to  whisper,  and  to  imagine  that 
he  was  selling  his  daughter  for  money,  now  knew  the 
truth  and  were  here  to  witness  his  ingenuity.  Intoxi- 
cated by  his  triumph,  he  began  to  show  off  his  power 
over  the  Inglese  for  the  benefit  of  the  tramplers  behind. 
He  talked  to  Maurice  with  a  loud  familiarity,  kept  laying 
his  hand  on  Maurice's  arm  as  they  walked,  and  even  called 
him,  with  a  half -jocose  intonation,  "  compare."  Maurice 
sickened  at  his  impertinence,  but  was  obliged  to  endure 
it  with  patience,  and  this  act  of  patience  brought  to  the 
birth  within  him  a  sudden,  fierce  longing  for  revenge,  a 
longing  to  pay  Salvatore  out  for  his  grossness,  his  greed, 
his  sly  and  leering  affectation  of  playing  the  slave  when 
he  was  really  indicating  to  his  compatriots  that  he  con- 
sidered himself  the  master.  Again  Maurice  heard  the  call 
of  the  Sicilian  blood  within  him,  but  this  time  it  did  not 
call  him  to  the  tarantella  or  to  love.  It  called  him  to 
strike  a  blow.  But  this  blow  could  only  be  struck 
through  Maddalena,  could  only  be  struck  if  he  were 
traitor  to  Hermione.  For  a  moment  he  saw  everything 
red.  Again  Salvatore  called  him  "compare."  Sud- 
denly Maurice  could  not  bear  it. 
292 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Don't  say  that!"  he  said.     "Don't  call  me  that!" 

He  had  almost  hissed  the  words  out.  Salvatore 
started,  and  for  an  instant,  as  they  walked  side  by  side, 
the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  with  eyes  that  told 
the  truth.  Then  Salvatore,  without  asking  for  any  ex- 
planation of  Maurice's  sudden  outburst,  said: 

"Va  bene,  signore,  va  bene!  I  thought  for  to-day 
we  were  all  compares.  Scusi,  scusi." 

There  was  a  bitterness  of  irony  in  his  voice.  As  he 
finished  he  swept  off  his  soft  hat  and  then  replaced  it 
more  over  his  left  ear  than  ever.  Maurice  knew  at  once 
that  he  had  done  the  unforgivable  thing,  that  he  had 
stabbed  a  Sicilian's  amour  propre  in  the  presence  of  wit- 
nesses of  his  own  blood.  The  fishermen  from  Catania 
had  heard.  He  knew  it  from  Salvatore's  manner,  and 
an  odd  sensation  came  to  him  that  Salvatore  had  passed 
sentence  upon  him.  In  silence,  and  mechanically,  he 
walked  on  to  the  end  of  the  street.  He  felt  like  one 
who,  having  done  something  swiftly,  thoughtlessly,  is 
suddenly  confronted  with  the  irreparable,  abruptly  sees 
the  future  spread  out  before  him  bathed  in  a  flash  of 
crude  light,  the  future  transformed  in  a  second  by  that 
act  of  his  as  a  landscape  is  transformed  by  an  earth- 
quake or  a  calm  sea  by  a  hurricane. 

And  when  the  watercourse  came  in  sight,  with  its 
crowd,  its  voices,  and  its  multitude  of  beasts,  he  looked 
at  it  dully  for  a  moment,  hardly  realizing  it. 

In  Sicily  the  animal  fairs  are  often  held  in  the  great 
watercourses  that  stretch  down  from  the  foot  of  the 
mountains  to  the  sea,  and  that  resemble  huge  high- 
roads in  the  making,  roads  upon  which  the  stones  have 
been  dumped  ready  for  the  steam-roller.  In  winter 
there  is  sometimes  a  torrent  of  water  rushing  through 
them,  but  in  summer  they  are  dry,  and  look  like 
wounds  gashed  in  the  thickly  growing  lemon  and  orange 
groves.  The  trampling  feet  of  beasts  can  do  no  harm 
to  the  stones,  and  these  watercourses  in  the  summer 
293 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

season  are  of  no  use  to  anybody.  They  are,  therefore, 
often  utilized  at  fair  time.  Cattle,  donkeys,  mules  are 
driven  down  to  them  in  squadrons.  Painted  Sicilian 
carts  are  ranged  upon  their  banks,  with  sets  of  harness, 
and  the  auctioneers,  whose  business  it  is  to  sell  miscel- 
laneous articles,  household  furniture,  stuffs,  clocks, 
ornaments,  frequently  descend  into  them,  and  mount 
a  heap  of  stones  to  gain  command  of  their  gaping  audi- 
ence of  contadini  and  the  shrewder  buyers  from  the 
towns. 

The  watercourse  of  San  Felice  was  traversed  at  its 
mouth  by  the  railway  line  from  Catania  to  Messina, 
which  crossed  it  on  a  long  bridge  supported  by  stone 
pillars  and  buttresses,  the  bridge  which,  as  Gaspare  had 
said,  had  recently  collapsed  and  was  now  nearly  built 
up  again.  It  was  already  in  use,  but  the  trains  were 
obliged  to  crawl  over  it  at  a  snail's  pace  in  order  not  to 
shake  the  unfinished  masonry,  and  men  were  stationed 
at  each  end  to  signal  to  the  driver  whether  he  was  to 
stop  or  whether  he  might  venture  to  go  on.  Beyond 
the  watercourse,  upon  the  side  opposite  to  the  town  of 
San  Felice,  was  a  series  of  dense  lemon  groves,  gained 
by  a  sloping  bank  of  bare,  crumbling  earth,  on  the  top 
of  which,  close  to  the  line  and  exactly  where  it  came 
to  the  bridge,  was  a  group  of  four  old  olive-trees  with 
gnarled,  twisted  trunks.  These  trees  cast  a  patch  of 
pleasant  shade,  from  which  all  the  bustle  of  the  fair  was 
visible,  but  at  a  distance,  and  as  Maurice  and  his  party 
came  out  of  the  village  on  the  opposite  bank,  he  whis- 
pered to  Maddalena: 

"Maddalena!" 

"Si,  signore?" 

"Let's  get  away  presently,  you  and  I;  let's  go  and 
sit  under  those  trees.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  quietly." 

"Si,  signore?" 

Her  voice  was  lower  even  than  his  own. 

"Ecco,  signore!     Ecco!" 

294 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

Salvatore  was  pointing  to  a  crowd  of  donkeys. 

"Signorino!     Signorino!" 

"What  is  it,  Gaspare?" 

"That  is  the  man  who  is  going  to  sell  the  clock!" 

The  boy's  face  was  intent.  His  eyes  were  shining, 
and  his  glum  manner  had  vanished,  under  the  influence 
of  a  keen  excitement.  Maurice  realized  that  very  soon 
he  would  be  free.  Once  his  friends  were  in  the  crowd  of 
buyers  and  sellers  everything  but  the  chance  of  a  bar- 
gain would  be  forgotten.  His  own  blood  quickened  but 
for  a  different  reason. 

"What  beautiful  carts!"  he  said.  "We  have  no  such 
carts  in  England!" 

"If  you  would  like  to  buy  a  cart,  signore — "  began 
Salvatore. 

But  Gaspare  interrupted  with  violence. 

"  Macche!  What  is  the  use  of  a  cart  to  the  signorino  ? 
He  is  going  away  to  England.  How  can  he  take  a  cart 
with  him  in  the  train?" 

"He  can  leave  the  cart  with  me,"  said  Salvatore,  with 
open  impudence.  "  I  can  take  care  of  it  for  the  signore 
as  well  as  the  donkey." 

"Macche!"  cried  Gaspare,  furiously. 

Maurice  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"Help  me  down  the  bank!     Come  on!" 

He  began  to  run,  pulling  Gaspare  with  him.  When 
they  got  to  the  bottom,  he  said: 

"It's  all  right,  Gaspare.  I'm  not  going  to  be  such 
a  fool  as  to  buy  a  cart.  Now,  then,  which  way  are  we 
going?" 

"  Signore,  do  you  want  to  buy  a  very  good  donkey,  a 
very  strong  donkey,  strong  enough  to  carry  three  Ger- 
mans to  the  top  of  Etna?  Come  and  see  my  donkey. 
He  is  very  cheap.  I  make  a  special  price  because  the 
signore  is  simpatico.  All  the  English  are  simpatici. 
Come  this  way,  signore!  Gaspare  knows  me.  Gaspare 
knows  that  I  am  not  birbante." 
295 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Signorino!  Signorino!  Look  at  this  clock!  It  plays 
the  'Tre  Colon.'  It  is  worth  twenty-five  lire,  but  I  will 
make  a  special  price  for  you  because  you  love  Sicily  and 
are  like  a  Siciliano.  Gaspare  will  tell  you — 

But  Gaspare  elbowed  away  his  acquaintances  roughly. 

"  Let  my  padrone  alone.  He  is  not  here  to  buy.  He 
is  only  here  to  see  the  fair.  Come  on,  signorino!  Do 
not  answer  them.  Do  not  take  any  notice.  You  must 
not  buy  anything  or  you  will  be  cheated.  Let  me  make 
the  prices." 

"Yes,  you  make  the  prices.  Per  Bacco,  how  hot  it 
is!" 

Maurice  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 

"Maddalena,  you'll  get  a  sunstroke!"  he  said. 

"Oh  no,  signore.     I  am  accustomed  to  the  sun." 

"But  to-day  it's  terrific!" 

Indeed,  the  masses  of  stones  in  the  watercourse  seemed 
to  draw  and  to  concentrate  the  sun-rays.  The  air  was 
alive  with  minute  and  dancing  specks  of  light,  and  in 
the  distance,  seen  under  the  railway  bridge,  the  sea 
looked  hot,  a  fiery  blue  that  was  surely  sweating  in  the 
glare  of  the  afternoon.  The  crowd  of  donkeys,  of  cat- 
tle, of  pigs — there  were  many  pigs  on  sale — looked  both 
dull  and  angry  in  the  heat,  and  the  swarms  of  Sicilians 
who  moved  slowly  about  among  them,  examining  them 
critically,  appraising  their  qualities  and  noting  their  de- 
fects, perspired  in  their  festa  clothes,  which  were  most- 
ly heavy  and  ill-adapted  to  summer-time.  A  small  boy 
passed  by,  bearing  in  his  arms  a  struggling  turkey.  He 
caught  his  foot  in  some  stones,  fell,  bruised  his  forehead, 
and  burst  out  crying,  while  the  indignant  and  terrified 
bird  broke  away,  leaving  some  feathers,  and  made  off 
violently  towards  Etna.  There  was  a  roar  of  laughter 
from  the  people  near.  Some  ran  to  catch  the  turkey, 
others  picked  up  the  boy.  Salvatore  had  stopped  to 
see  this  adventure,  and  was  now  at  a  little  distance  sur- 
rounded by  the  Catanesi,  who  were  evidently  deter- 
296 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

mined  to  assist  at  his  bidding  for  a  donkey.  The  sight 
of  the  note  for  a  hundred  lire  had  greatly  increased  their 
respect  for  Salvatore,  and  with  the  Sicilian  instinct  to 
go,  and  to  stay,  where  money  is,  they  now  kept  close 
to  their  comrade,  eying  him  almost  with  awe  as  one 
in  possession  of  a  fortune.  Maurice  saw  them  presently 
examining  a  group  of  donkeys.  Salvatore,  with  an 
autocratic  air,  and  the  wild  gestures  peculiar  to  him, 
was  evidently  laying  down  the  law  as  to  what  each  ani- 
mal was  worth.  The  fishermen  stood  by,  listening  at- 
tentively. The  fact  of  Salvatore 's  purchasing  power 
gave  him  the  right  to  pronounce  an  opinion.  He  was  in 
glory.  Maurice  thanked  Heaven  for  that.  The  man  in 
glory  is  often  the  forgetful  man.  Salvatore,  he  thought, 
would  not  bother  about  his  daughter  and  his  banker 
for  a  little  while.  But  how  to  get  rid  of  Gaspare  and 
Amedeo!  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  would  never 
leave  his  side. 

There  were  many  wooden  stands  covered  with  goods 
for  sale  in  the  watercourse,  with  bales  of  stuff  for  suits 
and  dresses,  with  hats  and  caps,  shirts,  cravats,  boots 
and  shoes,  walking-sticks,  shawls,  household  utensils, 
crockery,  everything  the  contadino  needs  and  loves. 
Gaspare,  having  money  to  lay  out,  considered  it  his 
serious  duty  to  examine  everything  that  was  to  be 
bought  with  slow  minuteness.  It  did  not  matter 
whether  the  goods  were  suited  to  a  masculine  taste  or 
not.  He  went  into  the  mysteries  of  feminine  attire 
with  almost  as  much  assiduity  as  a  mother  displays 
when  buying  a  daughter's  trousseau,  and  insisted  upon 
Maurice  sharing  his  interest  and  caution.  All  sense  of 
humor,  all  boyish  sprightliness  vanished  from  him  in 
this  important  epoch  of  his  life.  The  suspicion,  the  in- 
tensity of  the  bargaining  contadino  came  to  the  surface. 
His  usually  bright  face  was  quite  altered.  He  looked 
elderly,  subtle,  and  almost  Jewish  as  he  slowly  passed 
from  stall  to  stall, testing,  weighing,  measuring,  appraising. 
297 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

It  seemed  to  Maurice  that  this  progress  would  never 
end.  Presently  they  reached  a  stand  covered  with 
women's  shawls  and  with  aprons. 

"Shall  I  buy  an  apron  for  my  mother,  signorino?" 
asked  Gaspare. 

"Yes,  certainly.' 

Maurice  did  not  know  what  else  to  say.  The  result  of 
his  consent  was  terrible.  For  a  full  half -hour  they 
stood  in  the  glaring  sun,  while  Gaspare  and  Amedeo 
solemnly  tried  on  aprons  over  their  suits  in  the  midst 
of  a  concourse  of  attentive  contadini.  In  vain  did  Mau- 
rice say:  "That's  a  pretty  one.  I  should  take  that  one." 
Some  defect  was  always  discoverable.  The  distant 
mother's  taste  was  evidently  peculiar  and  not  to  be 
easily  suited,  and  Maurice,  not  being  familiar  with  it,  was 
unable  to  combat  such  assertions  of  Gaspare  as  that 
she  objected  to  pink  spots,  or  that  she  could  never  be 
expected  to  put  on  an  apron  before  the  neighbors  if  the 
stripes  upon  it  were  of  different  colors  and  there  was  no 
stitching  round  the  hem.  For  the  first  time  since  he  was 
in  Sicily  the  heat  began  to  affect  him  unpleasantly. 
His  head  felt  as  if  it  were  compressed  in  an  iron  band, 
and  the  vision  of  Gaspare,  eagerly  bargaining,  looking 
Jewish,  and  revolving  slowly  in  aprons  of  different  colors, 
shapes,  and  sizes,  began  to  dance  before  his  eyes.  He 
felt  desperate,  and  suddenly  resolved  to  be  frank. 

"Macche!"  Gaspare  was  exclaiming,  with  indignant 
gestures  of  protest  to  the  elderly  couple  who  were 
in  charge  of  the  aprons;  "it  is  not  worth  two  soldi! 
It  is  not  fit  to  be  thrown  to  the  pigs,  and  you  ask 
me — " 

"Gaspare!" 

"  Two  lire — Madonna!  Sangue  di  San  Pancrazio,  they 
ask  me  two  lire!  Macche!"  (He  flung  down  the  apron 
passionately  upon  the  stall.)  "Go  and  find  Lipari  peo- 
ple to  buy  your  dirt;  don't  come  to  one  from  Mare- 
chiaro." 

298 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  took  up  another  apron. 

"Gaspare!" 

"  One  lira  fifty  ?  Madre  mia,  do  you  think  I  was  born 
in  a  grotto  on  Etna  and  have  never — " 

"Gaspare,  listen  to  me!" 

"Scusi,  signorino!     I — 

"I'm  going  over  there  to  sit  down  in  the  shade  for  a 
minute.  After  that  wine  I  drank  at  dinner  I'm  a  bit 
sleepy." 

"Si,  signore.     Shall  I  come  with  you?" 

For  once  there  was  reluctance  in  his  voice,  and  he 
looked  down  at  the  blue -and -white  apron  he  had  on 
with  wistful  eyes.  It  was  a  new  joy  to  him  to  be  bar- 
gaining in  the  midst  of  an  attentive  throng  of  his  com- 
patriots. 

"  No,  no.  You  stay  here  and  spend  the  money.  Bid 
for  the  clock  when  the  auction  comes  on." 

"Oh,  signore,  but  you  must  be  here,  too,  then." 

"All-right.  Come  and  fetch  me  if  you  like.  I  shall 
be  over  there  under  the  trees." 

He  waved  his  hand  vaguely  towards  the  lemon 
groves. 

"Now,  choose  a  good  apron.  Don't  let  them  cheat 
you." 

"Macche!" 

The  boy  laughed  loudly,  and  turned  eagerly  to  the 
stall  again. 

"Come,  Maddalena!" 

Maurice  drew  her  quickly,  anxiously,  out  of  the  crowd, 
and  they  began  to  walk  across  the  watercourse  towards 
the  farther  bank  and  the  group  of  olive-trees.  Salva- 
tore  had  forgotten  them.  So  had  Gaspare.  Both  fa- 
ther and  servant  were  taken  by  the  fascination  of  the 
fair.  At  last!  But  how  late  it  must  be!  How  many 
hours  had  already  fled  away!  Maurice  scarcely  dared  to 
look  at  his  watch.  He  feared  to  see  the  time.  While 
they  walked  he  said  nothing  to  Maddalena,  but  when 
299 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

they  reached  the  bank  he  took  her  arm  and  helped  her 
up  it,  and  when  they  were  at  the  top  he  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"Are  you  tired,  signorino?" 

"  Tired — yes,  of  all  those  people.  Come  and  sit  down, 
Maddalena,  under  the  olive-trees." 

He  took  her  by  the  hand.  Her  hand  was  warm  and 
dry,  pleasant  to  touch,  to  hold.  As  he  felt  it  in  his  the 
desire  to  strike  at  Salvatore  revived  within  him.  Sal- 
vatore  was  laughing  at  him,  was  triumphing  over  him, 
triumphing  in  the  get-all  and  give-nothing  policy  which 
he  thought  he  was  pursuing  with  such  complete  success. 
Would  it  be  very  difficult  to  turn  that  success  into 
failure  ?  Maurice  wondered  for  a  moment,  then  ceased  to 
wonder.  Something  in  the  touch  of  Maddalena's  hand 
told  him  that,  if  he  chose,  he  could  have  his  revenge 
upon  Salvatore,  and  he  was  assailed  by  a  double  temp- 
tation. Both  anger  and  love  tempted  him.  If  he 
stooped  to  do  evil  he  could  gratify  two  of  the  strongest 
desires  in  humanity,  the  desire  to  conquer  in  love  and 
the  desire  to  triumph  in  hate.  Salvatore  thought  him 
such  a  fool,  held  him  in  such  contempt!  Something 
within  him  was  burning  to-day  as  a  cheek  burns  with 
shame,  something  within  him  that  was  like  the  kernel 
of  him,  like  the  soul  of  his  manhood,  which  the  fisher- 
man was  sneering  at.  He  did  not  say  to  himself  strong- 
ly that  he  did  not  care  what  such  men  thought  of  him. 
He  could  not,  for  his  nature  was  both  reckless  and  sen- 
sitive. He  did  care,  as  if  he  had  been  a  Sicilian  half 
doubtful  whether  he  dared  to  show  his  face  in  the  piazza. 
And  he  had  another  feeling,  too,  which  had  come  to  him 
when  Salvatore  had  answered  his  exclamation  of  irre- 
sistible anger  at  being  called  "compare,"  the  feeling  that, 
whether  he  sinned  against  the  fisherman  or  not,  the 
fisherman  meant  to  do  him  harm.  The  sensation  might 
be  absurd,  would  have  seemed  to  him  probably  absurd 
in  England.  Here,  in  Sicily,  it  sprang  up  and  he  had 
300 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

just  to  accept  it,  as  a  man  accepts  an  instinct  which 
guides  him,  prompts  him. 

Salvatore  had  turned  down  his  thumb  that  day. 

Maurice  was  not  afraid  of  him.  Physically,  he  was 
quite  fearless.  But  this  sensation  of  having  been  secret- 
ly condemned  made  him  feel  hard,  cruel,  ready,  perhaps, 
to  do  a  thing  not  natural  to  him,  to  sacrifice  another 
who  had  never  done  him  wrong.  At  that  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  more  manly  to  triumph 
over  Salvatore  by  a  double  betrayal  than  to  "run 
straight,"  conquer  himself  and  let  men  not  of  his  code 
think  of  him  as  they  would. 

Not  of  his  code!  But  what  was  his  code?  Was  it 
that  of  England  or  that  of  Sicily  ?  Which  strain  of 
blood  was  governing  him  to-day  ?  Which  strain  would 
govern  him  finally  ?  Artois  would  have  had  an  inter- 
esting specimen  under  his  observant  eyes  had  he  been 
at  the  fair  of  San  Felice. 

Maddalena  willingly  obeyed  Maurice's  suggestion. 

"Get  well  into  the  shade,"  he  said.  "There's  just 
enough  to  hold  us,  if  we  sit  close  together.  You  don't 
mind  that,  do  you?" 

"No,  signore." 

"Put  your  back  against  the  trunk — there." 

He  kept  his  hat  off.  Over  the  railway  line  from  the 
hot  -  looking  sea  there  came  a  little  breeze  that  just 
moved  his  short  hair  and  the  feathers  of  gold  about 
Maddalena's  brow.  In  the  watercourse,  but  at  some 
distance,  they  saw  the  black  crowd  of  men  and  women 
and  beasts  swarming  over  the  hot  stones. 

"How  can  they?"  Maurice  muttered,  as  he  looked 
down. 

"Cosa?" 

He  laughed. 

"  I  was  thinking  out  loud.  I  meant  how  can  they  bar- 
gain and  bother  hour  after  hour  in  all  that  sun!" 

"But,  signorino,  you  would  not  have  them  pay  too 
301 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

much!"  she  said,  very  seriously.  "It  is  dreadful  to 
waste  soldi." 

"I  suppose — yes,  of  course  it  is.  Oh,  but  there  are 
so  many  things  worth  more  than  soldi.  Dio  mio!  Let's 
forget  all  that!" 

He  waved  his  hand  towards  the  crowd,  but  he  saw 
that  Maddalena  was  preoccupied.  She  glanced  towards 
the  watercourse  rather  wistfully. 

"What  is  it,  Maddalena?  Ah,  I  know!  The  blue 
dress  and  the  ear-rings!  Per  Bacco!" 

"No,  signore — no,  signore!" 

She  disclaimed  quickly,  reddening. 

"Yes,  it  is.  I  had  forgotten.  But  we  can't  go  now. 
Maddalena,  we  will  buy  them  this  evening.  Directly 
it  gets  cool  we'll  go,  directly  we've  rested  a  little.  But 
don't  think  of  them  now.  I've  promised,  and  I  always 
keep  a  promise.  Now,  don't  think  of  that  any  more!" 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  desperation.  The  fair  seemed 
to  be  his  enemy,  and  he  had  thought  that  it  would  be 
his  friend.  It  was  like  a  personage  with  a  stronger 
influence  than  his,  an  influence  that  could  take  away 
that  which  he  wished  to  retain,  to  fix  upon  himself. 

"No,  signore,"  Maddalena  said,  meekly,  but  still 
wistfully. 

"  Do  you  care  for  a  blue  dress  and  a  pair  of  ear-rings 
more  than  you  do  for  me?"  cried  Maurice,  with  sudden 
roughness.  "Are  you  like  your  father?  Do  you  only 
care  for  me  for  what  you  can  get  out  of  me  ?  I  believe 
you  do!" 

Maddalena  looked  startled,  almost  terrified,  by  his 
outburst.  Her  lips  trembled,  but  she  gazed  at  him 
steadily. 

"Non  e  vero." 

The  words  sounded  almost  stern. 

"I  do — "  he  said.  "I  do  want  to  be  cared  for  a 
little — just  for  myself." 

At  that  moment  he  had  a  sensation  of  loneliness  like 
302 


HE     KEPT     HIS     HAND    ON     HERS    AND     HELD     IT    ON     THE     WARM 

GROUND" 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

that  of  an  utterly  unloved  man.  And  yet  at  that  mo- 
ment a  great  love  was  travelling  to  him — a  love  that 
was  complete  and  flawless.  But  he  did  not  think  of  it. 
He  only  thought  that  perhaps  all  this  time  he  had  been 
deceived,  that  Maddalena,  like  her  father,  was  merely 
pleased  to  see  him  because  he  had  money  and  could 
spend  it.  He  sickened. 

"Non  e  vero!"  Maddalena  repeated. 

Her  lips  still  trembled.  Maurice  looked  at  her  doubt- 
fully, yet  with  a  sudden  tenderness.  Always  when  she 
looked  troubled,  even  for  an  instant,  there  came  to  him 
the  swift  desire  to  protect  her,  to  shield  her. 

"But  why  should  you  care  for  me?"  he  said.  "It 
is  better  not.  For  I  am  going  away,  and  probably  you 
will  never  see  me  again." 

Tears  came  into  Maddalena's  eyes.  He  did  not  know 
whether  they  were  summoned  by  his  previous  roughness 
or  his  present  pathos.  He  wanted  to  know. 

"Probably  I  shall  never  come  back  to  Sicily  again," 
he  said,  with  pressure. 

She  said  nothing. 

" It  will  be  better  not,"  he  added.     "Much  better." 

Now  he  was  speaking  for  himself. 

"There's  something  here,  something  that  I  love  and 
that's  bad  for  me.  I'm  quite  changed  here.  I'm  like 
another  man." 

He  saw  a  sort  of  childish  surprise  creeping  into  her  face. 

"Why,  signorino?"  she  murmured. 

He  kept  his  hand  on  hers  and  held  it  on  the  warm 
ground. 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  sun,"  he  said.  "I  lose  my  head 
here,  and  I — lose  my  heart!"  • 

She  still  looked  rather  surprised,  and  again  her  igno- 
rance fascinated  him.  He  thought  that  it  was  far  more 
attractive  than  any  knowledge  could  have  been. 

"I'm  horribly  happy  here,  but  I  oughtn't  to  be 
happy." 

3°3 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Why,  signorino  ?     It  is  better  to  be  happy." 

"Per  Dio!"  he  exclaimed. 

Now  a  deep  desire  to  have  his  revenge  upon  Salva- 
tore  came  to  him,  but  not  at  all  because  it  would  hurt 
Salvatore.  The  cruelty  had  gone  out  of  him.  Mad- 
dalena's  eyes  of  a  child  had  driven  it  away.  He  wanted 
his  revenge  only  because  it  would  be  an  intense  happi- 
ness to  him  to  have  it.  He  wanted  it  because  it  would 
satisfy  an  imperious  desire  of  tender  passion,  not  be- 
cause it  would  infuriate  a  man  who  hated  him.  He 
forgot  the  father  in  the  daughter. 

"Suppose  I  were  quite  poor,  Maddalena!"  he  said. 

"But  you  are  very  rich,  signorino." 

"But  suppose  I  were  poor,  like  Gaspare,  for  instance. 
Suppose  I  were  as  I  am,  just  the  same,  only  a  conta- 
dino,  or  a  fisherman,  as  your  father  is.  And  suppose 
— suppose" — he  hesitated — "suppose  that  I  were  not 
married!" 

She  said  nothing.  She  was  listening  with  deep  but 
still  surprised  attention. 

"Then  I  could  —  I  could  go  to  your  father  and  ask 
him — " 

He  stopped. 

"What  could  you  ask  him,  signorino?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

"No,  signore." 

"I  might  ask  him  to  let  me  marry  you.  I  should — 
if  it  were  like  that— I  should  ask  him  to  let  me  marry 
you." 

"  Davvero  ?" 

An  expression  of  intense  pleasure,  and  of  something 
more— of  pride— had  come  into  her  face.  She  could 
not  divest  herself  imaginatively  of  her  conception  of 
him  as  a  rich  forestiere,  and  she  saw  herself  placed  high 
above  "the  other  girls,"  turned  into  a  lady. 

"Magari!"  she  murmured,  drawing  in  her  breath, 
then  breathing  out. 

3°4 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

"You  would  be  happy  if  I  did  that ?" 

"Magari!"  she  said  again. 

He  did  not  know  what  the  word  meant,  but  he  thought 
it  sounded  like  the  most  complete  expression  of  satis- 
faction he  had  ever  heard. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hand — "I  wish  I  were 
a  Sicilian  of  Marechiaro." 

At  this  moment,  while  he  was  speaking,  he  heard  in 
the  distance  the  shrill  whistle  of  an  engine.  It  ceased. 
Then  it  rose  again,  piercing,  prolonged,  fierce  surely  with 
inquiry.  He  put  his  hands  to  his  ears. 

"How  beastly  that  is!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  hated  it,  not  only  for  itself,  but  for  the  knowledge 
it  sharply  recalled  to  his  mind,  the  knowledge  of  exact- 
ly what  he  was  doing,  and  of  the  facts  of  his  life,  the 
facts  that  the  very  near  future  held. 

"Why  do  they  do  that?"  he  added,  with  intense 
irritation. 

"Because  of  the  bridge,  signorino.  They  want  to 
know  if  they  can  come  upon  the  bridge.  Look!  There 
is  the  man  waving  a  flag.  Now  they  can  come.  It  is 
the  train  from  Palermo." 

"Palermo!"  he  said,  sharply. 

"Si,  signore." 

"  But  the  train  from  Palermo  comes  the  other  way, 
by  Messina!" 

"Si,  signore.  But  there  are  two,  one  by  Messina 
and  one  by  Catania.  Ecco!" 

From  the  lemon  groves  came  the  rattle  of  the  ap- 
proaching train. 

"But — but — " 

He  caught  at  his  watch,  pulled  it  out. 

Five  o'clock! 

He  had  taken  his  hand  from  Maddalena's,  and  now 
he  made  a  movement  as  if  to  get  up.  But  he  did  not 
get  up.  Instead,  he  pressed  back  against  the  olive- 
tree,  upon  whose  trunk  he  was  leaning,  as  if  he  wished 
305 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

to  force  himself  into  the  gnarled  wood  of  it.  He  had 
an  instinct  to  hide.  The  train  came  on  very  slowly. 
During  the  two  or  three  minutes  that  elapsed  before  it 
was  in  his  view  Maurice  lived  very  rapidly.  He  felt  sure 
that  Hermione  and  Artois  were  in  the  train.  Hermione 
had  said  that  they  would  arrive  at  Cattaro  at  five- 
thirty.  She  had  not  said  which  way  they  were  coming. 
Maurice  had  assumed  that  they  would  come  from  Mes- 
sina because  Hermione  had  gone  away  by  that  route. 
It  was  a  natural  error.  But  now  ?  If  they  were  at  the 
carriage  window!  If  they  saw  him!  And  surely  they 
must  see  him.  The  olive  -  trees  were  close  to  the  line 
and  on  a  level  with  it.  He  could  not  get  away.  If  he 
got  up  he  would  be  more  easily  seen.  Hermione  would 
call  out  to  him.  If  he  pretended  not  to  hear  she  might, 
she  probably  would,  get  out  of  the  train  at  the  San 
Felice  station  and  come  into  the  fair.  She  was  im- 
pulsive. It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  she  might  do. 
She  would  do  it.  He  was  sure  she  would  do  it.  He 
looked  at  the  watercourse  hard.  The  crowd  of  people 
was  not  very  far  off.  He  thought  he  detected  the  form 
of  Gaspare.  Yes,  it  was  Gaspare.  He  and  Amedeo  were 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  near  the  railway  bridge. 
As  he  gazed,  the  train  whistled  once  more,  and  he  saw 
Gaspare  turn  round  and  look  towards  the  sea.  He  held 
his  breath. 

"Ecco,  signorino.     Viene!" 

Maddalena  touched  his  arm,  kept  her  hand  upon  it. 
She  was  deeply  interested  in  this  event,  the  traversing  by 
the  train  of  the  unfinished  bridge.  Maurice  was  thank- 
ful for  that.  At  least  she  did  not  notice  his  violent 
perturbation. 

"Look,  signorino!     Look!" 

In  despite  of  himself,  Maurice  obeyed  her.  He  wanted 
not  to  look,  but  he  could  not  help  looking.  The  en- 
gine, still  whistling,  crept  out  from  the  embrace  of  the 
lemon-trees,  with  the  dingy  line  of  carriages  behind  it. 
306 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

At  most  of  the  windows  there  were  heads  of  people 
looking  out.  Third  class — he  saw  soldiers,  contadini. 
Second  class — ^no  one.  Now  the  first-class  carriages 
were  coming.  They  were  close  to  him. 

"Ah!" 

He  had  seen  Hermione.  She  was  standing  up,  with 
her  two  hands  resting  on  the  door-frame  and  her  head 
and  shoulders  outside  of  the  carriage.  Maurice  sat  ab- 
solutely still  and  stared  at  her,  stared  at  her  almost  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger  passing  by.  She  was  looking 
at  the  watercourse,  at  the  crowd,  eagerly.  Her  face, 
much  browner  than  when  she  had  left  Sicily,  was  alight 
with  excitement,  with  happiness.  She  was  radiant. 
Yet  he  thought  she  looked  old,  older  at  least  than  he 
had  remembered.  Suddenly,  as  the  train  came  very 
slowly  upon  the  bridge,  she  drew  in  to  speak  to  some 
one  behind  her,  and  he  saw  vaguely  Artois,  pale,  with 
a  long  beard.  He  was  seated,  and  he,  too,  was  gazing 
out  at  the  fair.  He  looked  ill,  but  he,  too,  looked  happy, 
much  happier  than  he  had  in  London.  He  put  up  a  thin 
hand  and  stroked  his  beard,  and  Maurice  saw  wrinkles 
coming  round  his  eyes  as  he  smiled  at  something  Her- 
mione said  to  him.  The  train  came  to  the  middle  of 
the  bridge  and  stopped. 

"Ecco!"  murmured  Maddalena.  "The  man  at  the 
other  end  has  signalled!" 

Maurice  looked  again  at  the  watercourse.  Gaspare 
was  beyond  the  crowd  now,  and  was  staring  at  the  train 
with  interest,  like  Maddalena.  Would  it  never  go  on  ? 
Maurice  set  his  teeth  and  cursed  it  silently.  And  his 
soul  said:  "Go  on!  Go  on!"  again  and  again.  "Go  on! 
Go  on!"  Now  Hermione  was  once  more  leaning  out. 
Surely  she  must  see  Gaspare.  A  man  waved  a  flag. 
The  train  jerked  back,  jangled,  crept  forward  once 
more,  this  time  a  little  faster.  In  a  moment  they  would 
be  gone.  Thank  God!  But  what  was  Hermione  doing? 
She  started.  She  leaned  further  forward,  staring  into 
307 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

the  watercourse.  Maurice  saw  her  face  changing.  A 
look  of  intense  surprise,  of  intense  inquiry,  came  into  it. 
She  took  one  hand  swiftly  from  the  door,  put  it  be- 
hind her  —  ah,  she  had  a  pair  of  opera-glasses  at  her 
eyes  now!  The  train  went  on  faster.  It  was  nearly 
off  the  bridge.  But  she  was  waving  her  hand.  She 
was  calling.  She  had  seen  Gaspare.  And  he  ?  Maurice 
saw  him  start  forward  as  if  to  run  to  the  bridge.  But 
the  train  was  gone.  The  boy  stopped,  hesitated,  then 
dashed  away  across  the  stones. 

' '  Signorino !     Signorino ! ' ' 

Maurice  said  nothing. 

"Signorino!"  repeated  Maddalena.  "Look  at  Gas- 
pare! Is  he  mad  ?  Look!  How  he  is  running!" 

Gaspare  reached  the  bank,  darted  up  it,  and  disap- 
peared into  the  village. 

"Signorino,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Maddalena  pulled  his  sleeve.  She  was  looking  al- 
most alarmed. 

"Matter?     Nothing." 

Maurice  got  up.  He  could  not  remain  still.  It  was 
all  over  now.  The  fair  was  at  an  end  for  him.  Gaspare 
would  reach  the  station  before  the  train  went  on,  would 
explain  matters.  Hermione  would  get  out.  Already 
Maurice  seemed  to  see  her  coming  down  to  the  water- 
course, walking  with  her  characteristic  slow  vigor.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  at  first  that  Hermione  might  refuse 
to  leave  Artois.  Something  in  him  knew  that  she  was 
coming.  Fate  had  interfered  now  imperiously.  Once 
he  had  cheated  fate.  That  was  when  he  came  to  the 
fair  despite  Hermione's  letter.  Now  fate  was  going 
to  have  her  revenge  upon  him.  He  looked  at  Mad- 
dalena. Was  fate  working  for  her,  to  protect  her? 
Would  his  loss  be  her  gain  ?  He  did  not  know,  for  he 
did  not  know  what  would  have  been  the  course  of  his 
own  conduct  if  fate  had  not  interfered.  He  had  been 
trifling,  letting  the  current  take  him.  It  might  have 
308 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

taken  him  far,  but — now  Hermione  was  coming.  It  was 
all  over  and  the  sun  was  still  up,  still  shining  upon  the 
sea. 

"Let  us  go  into  the  fair.     It  is  cooler  now." 

He  tried  to  speak  lightly. 

"Si,  signore." 

Maddalena  shook  out  her  skirt  and  began  to  smile. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  blue  dress  and  the  ear-rings. 
They  went  down  into  the  watercourse. 

"Signorino,  what  can  have  been  the  matter  with 
Gaspare?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"He  was  looking  at  the  train." 

"Was  he?  Perhaps  he  saw  a  friend  in  it.  Yes,  that 
must  have  been  it.  He  saw  a  friend  in  the  train." 

He  stared  across  the  watercourse  towards  the  village, 
seeking  two  figures,  and  he  was  conscious  now  of  two 
feelings  that  fought  within  him,  of  two  desires:  a  desire 
that  Hermione  should  not  come,  and  a  desire  that  she 
should  come.  He  wanted,  ho  even  longed,  to  have  his 
evening  with  Maddalena.  Yet  he  wanted  Hermione  to 
get  out  of  the  train  when  Gaspare  told  her  that  he — 
Maurice — was  at  San  Felice.  If  she  did  not  get  out  she 
would  be  putting  Artois  before  him.  The  pale  face  at 
the  window,  the  eyes  that  smiled  when  Hermione  turned 
familiarly  round  to  speak,  had  stirred  within  him  the 
jealousy  of  which  he  had  already  been  conscious  more 
than  once.  But  now  actual  vision  had  made  it  fiercer. 
The  woman  who  had  leaned  out  looking  at  the  fair 
belonged  to  him.  He  felt  intensely  that  she  was  his 
property.  Maddalena  spoke  to  him  again,  two  or 
three  times.  He  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  seeing  the 
wrinkles  that  came  round  the  eyes  of  Artois  when  he 
smiled. 

"Where  are  we  going,  signorino?  Are  we  going  back 
to  the  town?" 

Instinctively,  Maurice  was  following  in  the  direction 
309 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

taken  by  Gaspare.     He  wanted  to  meet  fate  half-way, 
to  still,  by  action,  the  tumult  of  feeling  within  him. 

"Aren't  the  best  things  to  be  bought  there?"  he  re- 
plied. "By  the  church  where  all  those  booths  are? 
I  think  so." 

Maddalena  began  to  walk  a  little  faster.  The  mo- 
ment had  come.  Already  she  felt  the  blue  dress  rust- 
ling about  her  limbs,  the  ear-rings  swinging  in  her  ears. 

Maurice  did  not  try  to  hold  her  back.  Nor  did  it  occur 
to  him  that  it  would  be  wise  to  meet  Hermione  without 
Maddalena.  He  had  done  no  actual  wrong,  and  the 
pale  face  of  Artois  had  made  him  defiant.  Hermione 
came  to  him  with  her  friend.  He  would  come  to  her 
with  his.  He  did  not  think  of  Maddalena  as  a  weapon 
exactly,  but  he  did  feel  as  if,  without  her,  he  would  be 
at  a  disadvantage  when  he  and  Hermione  met. 

They  were  in  the  first  street  now.  People  were  be- 
ginning to  flow  back  from  the  watercourse  towards  the 
centre  of  the  fair.  They  walked  in  a  crowd  and  could 
not  see  far  before  them.  But  Maurice  thought  he  would 
know  when  Hermione  was  near  him,  that  he  would  feel 
her  approach.  The  crowd  went  on  slowly,  retarding 
them,  but  at  last  they  were  near  to  the  church  of  Sant' 
Onofrio  and  could  hear  the  sound  of  music.  The  "In- 
termezzo" from  "Cavalleria  Rusticana"  was  being 
played  by  the  Musica  Mascagni.  Suddenly,  Maurice 
started.  He  had  felt  a  pull  at  his  arm. 

"Signorino!     Signorino!" 

Gaspare  was  by  his  side,  streaming  with  perspiration 
and  looking  violently  excited. 

"Gaspare!" 

He  stopped,  cast  a  swift  look  round.  Gaspare  was 
alone. 

"Signorino" — the  boy  was  breathing  hard — "the  sig- 
nora" — he  gulped — "the  signora  has  come  back." 

The  time  had  come  for  acting.  Maurice  feigned  sur- 
prise. 

310 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"The  signora!  What  are  you  saying?  The  signora 
is  in  Africa." 

"No,  signore!     She  is  here!" 

"Here  in  San  Felice!" 

"No,  signore!  But  she  was  in  the  train.  I  saw  her 
at  the  window.  She  waved  her  hand  to  me  and  called 
out — when  the  train  was  on  the  bridge.  I  ran  to  the 
station;  I  ran  fast,  but  when  I  got  there  the  train  had 
just  gone.  The  signora  has  come  back,  and  we  are  not 
there  to  meet  her!" 

His  eyes  were  tragic.  Evidently  he  felt  that  their 
absence  was  a  matter  of  immense  importance,  was  a 
catastrophe. 

"The  signora  here!"  Maurice  repeated,  trying  to  make 
his  voice  amazed.  "But  why  did  she  not  tell  us? 
Why  did  not  she  say  that  she  was  coming?" 

He  looked  at  Gaspare,  but  only  for  an  instant.  He 
felt  afraid  to  meet  his  great,  searching  eyes. 

"Non  lo  so." 

Maddalena  stood  by  in  silence.  The  bright  look  of 
anticipation  had  gone  out  of  her  face,  and  was  replaced 
by  a  confused  and  slightly  anxious  expression. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  Maurice  said,  heavily.  "I 
can't — was  the  signora  alone,  or  did  you  see  some  one 
with  her?" 

"The  sick  signore?  I  did  not  see  him.  I  saw  only 
the  signora  standing  at  the  window,  waving  her  hand 
— cosl!" 

He  waved  his  hand. 

"Madonna!"  Maurice  said,  mechanically. 

"What  are  we  to  do,  signorino?" 

"Do!     What  can  we  do?     The  train  has  gone!" 

"Si,  signore.     But  shall  I  fetch  the  donkeys?" 

Maurice  stole  a  glance  at  Maddalena.  She  was  look- 
ing frankly  piteous. 

"  Have  you  got  the  clock  yet  ?"  he  asked  Gaspare. 

"No,  signore." 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Gaspare  began  to  look  rather  miserable,  too. 

"It  has  not  been  put  up.  Perhaps  they  are  putting 
it  up  now." 

"Gaspare,"  Maurice  said,  hastily,  "we  can't  be  back 
to  meet  the  signora  now.  Even  if  we  went  at  once  we 
should  be  hours  late — and  the  donkeys  are  tired,  per- 
haps. They  will  go  slowly  unless  they  have  a  proper 
rest.  It  is  a  dreadful  pity,  but  I  think  if  the  signora 
knew  she  would  wish  us  to  stay  now  till  the  fair  is  over. 
She  would  not  wish  to  spoil  your  pleasure.  Do  you 
think  she  would  ?" 

"No,  signore.  The  signora  always  wishes  people  to 
be  happy." 

"  Even  if  we  went  at  once  it  would  be  night  before 
we  got  back." 

"Si,  signore." 

"I  think  we  had  better  stay — at  any  rate  till  the 
auction  is  finished  and  we  have  had  something  to  eat. 
Then  we  will  go." 

"Va  bene." 

The  boy  sounded  doubtful. 

"La  povera  signora!"  he  said.  "How  disappointed 
she  will  be!  She  did  want  to  speak  to  me.  Her  face 
was  all  red;  she  was  so  excited  when  she  saw  me,  and 
her  mouth  was  wide  open  like  that!" 

He  made  a  grimace,  with  earnest,  heartfelt  sincerity. 

"It  cannot  be  helped.  To-night  we  will  explain 
everything  and  make  the  signora  quite  happy.  Look 
here!  Buy  something  for  her.  Buy  her  a  present  at 
the  auction!" 

"Signorino!"  Gaspare  cried.  "I  will  give  her  the 
clock  that  plays  the  'Tre  Colori'!  Then  she  will  be 
happy  again.  Shall  I?" 

"Si,  si.  And  meet  me  in  the  market-place.  Then 
we  will  eat  something  and  we  will  start  for  home." 

The  boy  darted  away  towards  the  watercourse.  His 
heart  was  light  again.  He  had  something  to  do  for  the 
312 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

signora,  something  that  would  make  her  very  happy. 
Ah,  when  she  heard  the  clock  playing  the  "Tre  Colori"! 
Mamma  mia! 

He  tore  towards  the  watercourse  in  an  agony  lest  he 
should  be  too  late. 

Night  was  falling  over  the  fair.  The  blue  dress  and 
the  ear-rings  had  been  chosen  and  paid  for.  The  prom- 
enade of  the  beauties  in  the  famous  inherited  brocades 
had  taken  place  with  eclat  before  the  church  of  Sant' 
Onofrio.  Salvatore  had  acquired  a  donkey  of  strange 
beauty  and  wondrous  strength,  and  Gaspare  had  reap- 
peared in  the  piazza  accompanied  by  Amedeo,  both 
laden  with  purchases  and  shining  with  excitement  and 
happiness.  Gaspare's  pockets  were  bulging,  and  he  walked 
carefully,  carrying  in  his  hands  a  tortured -looking  parcel. 

"Dov'e  il  mio  padrone?"  he  asked,  as  he  and  Amedeo 
pushed  through  the  dense  throng.  "Dov'e  il  mio  pa- 
drone?" 

He  spied  Maurice  and  Maddalena  sitting  before  the  ris- 
torante  listening  to  the  performance  of  a  small  Neapoli- 
tan boy  with  a  cropped  head,  who  was  singing  street 
songs  in  a  powerful  bass  voice,  and  occasionally  doing 
a  few  steps  of  a  melancholy  dance  upon  the  pavement. 
The  crowd  billowed  round  them.  A  little  way  off  the 
"Musica  della  citta,"  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  colored 
lamps,  was  playing  a  selection  from  the  "Puritani." 
The  strange  ecclesiastical  chant  of  the  Roman  ice 
venders  rose  up  against  the  music  as  if  in  protest.  And 
these  three  definite  and  fighting  melodies — of  the  Nea- 
politan, the  band,  and  the  ice  venders — detached  them- 
selves from  a  foundation  of  ceaseless  sound,  contributed 
by  the  hundreds  of  Sicilians  who  swarmed  about  the 
ancient  church,  infested  the  narrow  side  streets  of  the 
village,  looked  down  from  the  small  balconies  and  the 
windows  of  the  houses,  and  gathered  in  mobs  in  the 
wine-shops  and  the  trattorie. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Signorino!     Signorino!     Look!" 

Gaspare  had  reached  Maurice,  and  now  stood  by  the 
little  table  at  which  his  padrone  and  Maddalena  were 
sitting,  and  placed  the  tortured  parcel  tenderly  upon  it. 

"Is  that  the  clock?" 

Gaspare  did  not  reply  in  words,  but  his  brown  fingers 
deftly  removed  the  string  and  paper  and  undressed  his 
treasure. 

"Ecco!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  clock  was  revealed,  a  great  circle  of  blue  and 
white  standing  upon  short,  brass  legs,  and  ticking  loudly. 

"Speranza  mia,  non  piangere, 

E  il  marinar  fedele, 
Vedrai  tornar  dall'  Africa 
Tra  un  anno  queste  vele — " 

bawled  the  little  boy  from  Naples.  Gaspare  seized  the 
clock,  turned  a  handle,  lifted  his  hand  in  a  reverent  gest- 
ure bespeaking  attention;  there  was  a  faint  whirr,  and 
then,  sure  enough,  the  tune  of  the  "Tre  Colori"  was  tin- 
kled blithely  forth. 

"Ecco!"  repeated  Gaspare,  triumphantly. 

"Mamma  mia!"  murmured  Maddalena,  almost  ex- 
hausted with  the  magic  of  the  fair. 

"It's  wonderful!"  said  Maurice. 

He,  too,  was  a  little  tired,  but  not  in  body. 

Gaspare  wound  the  clock  again,  and  again  the  tune 
was  trilled  forth,  competing  sturdily  with  the  giant 
noises  of  the  fair,  a  little  voice  that  made  itself  audible 
by  its  clearness  and  precision. 

"Ecco!"  repeated  Gaspare.  "Will  not  the  signora 
be  happy  when  she  sees  what  I  have  brought  her  from 
the  fair?" 

He  sighed  from  sheer  delight  in  his  possession  and 
the  thought  of  his  padrona's  joy  and  wonder  in  it. 

"Mangiamo?"  he  added,  descending  from  heavenly 
delights  to  earthly  necessities. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Yes,  it  is  getting  late,"  said  Maurice.  "The  fire- 
works will  soon  be  beginning,  I  suppose." 

"Not  till  ten,  signorino.  I  have  asked.  There  will 
be  dancing  first.  But — are  we  going  to  stay?" 

Maurice  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  second. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Even  if  we  went  now  the  signora 
would  be  in  bed  and  asleep  long  before  we  got  home. 
We  will  stay  to  the  end,  the  very  end." 

"Then  we  can  say  'Good-morning'  to  the  signora 
when  we  get  home,"  said  Gaspare. 

He  was  quite  happy  now  that  he  had  this  marvellous 
present  to  take  back  with  him.  He  felt  that  it  would 
make  all  things  right,  would  sweep  away  all  lingering  dis- 
appointment at  their  absence  and  the  want  of  welcome. 

Salvatore  did  not  appear  at  the  meal.  He  had  gone 
off  to  stable  his  new  purchase  with  the  other  donkeys, 
and  now,  having  got  a  further  sum  of  money  out  of  the 
Inglese,  was  drinking  and  playing  cards  with  the  fisher- 
men of  Catania.  But  he  knew  where  his  girl  and  Mau- 
rice were,  and  that  Gaspare  and  Amedeo  were  with  them. 
And  he  knew,  too,  that  the  Inglese's  signora  had  come 
back.  He  told  the  news  to  the  fishermen. 

"To-night,  when  he  gets  home,  his  'cristiana'  will  be 
waiting  for  him.  Per  Dio!  it  is  over  for  him  now.  We 
shall  see  little  more  of  him." 

"And  get  little  more  from  him!"  said  one  of  the  fisher- 
men, who  was  jealous  of  Salvatore's  good-fortune. 

Salvatore  laughed  loudly.  He  had  drunk  a  good 
deal  of  wine  and  he  had  had  a  great  deal  of  money 
given  to  him. 

"I  shall  find  another  English  fool,  perhaps!"  he  said. 
"Chi  lo  sa?" 

"And  his  cristiana?"  asked  another  fisherman. 
"What  is  she  like?" 

"Like!"  cried  Salvatore,  pouring  out  another  glass 
of  wine  and  spitting  on  the  discolored  floor,  over  which 
hens  were  running;  "what  is  any  cristiana  like?" 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

And  he  repeated  the  contadino's  proverb: 

'"La  mugghieri  e  comu  la  gatta:  si  1'accarizzi,  idda 
ti  gratta!' " 

"Perhaps  the  Inglese  will  get  scratched  to-night," 
said  the  first  fisherman. 

"I  don't  mind,"  rejoined  Salvatore.  "Get  us  a  fresh 
pack  of  cards,  Fortunato.  I'll  pay  for  'em." 

And  he  flung  down  a  lira  on  the  wine-stained  table. 

Gaspare,  now  quite  relieved  in  his  mind,  gave  him- 
self up  with  all  his  heart  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  last 
hours  of  the  fair,  and  was  unwearied  in  calling  on  his 
padrone  to  do  the  same.  When  the  evening  meal  was 
over  he  led  the  party  forth  into  the  crowd  that  was 
gathered  about  the  music;  he  took  them  to  the  shooting- 
tent,  and  made  them  try  their  luck  at  the  little  figures 
which  calmly  presented  grotesquely  painted  profiles  to 
the  eager  aim  of  the  contadini;  he  made  them  eat  ices 
which  they  bought  at  the  beflagged  cart  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical Romans,  whose  eternally  chanting  voices  made 
upon  Maurice  a  sinister  impression,  suggesting  to  his  mind 
— he  knew  not  why — the  thought  of  death.  Finally, 
prompted  by  Amedeo,  he  drew  Maurice  into  a  room  where 
there  was  dancing. 

It  was  crowded  with  men  and  women,  was  rather 
dark  and  very  hot.  In  a  corner  there  was  a  grinding 
organ,  whose  handle  was  turned  by  a  perspiring  man 
in  a  long,  woollen  cap.  Beside  him,  hunched  up  on  a 
window-sill,  was  a  shepherd  boy  who  accompanied  the 
organ  upon  a  flute  of  reed.  Round  the  walls  stood  a 
throng  of  gazers,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  the 
dancers  performed  vigorously,  dancing  now  a  polka, 
now  a  waltz,  now  a  mazurka,  now  an  elaborate  coun- 
try-dance in  which  sixteen  or  twenty  people  took  part, 
now  a  tarantella,  called  by  many  of  the  contadini  "  La 
Fasola."  No  sooner  had  they  entered  the  room  than 
Gaspare  gently  but  firmly  placed  his  arm  round  his 
padrone's  waist,  took  his  left  hand  and  began  to  turn 
316 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

him  about  in  a  slow  waltz,  while  Amedeo  followed  the 
example  given  with  Maddalena.  Round  and  round 
they  went  among  the  other  couples.  The  organ  in  the 
corner  ground  out  a  wheezy  tune.  The  reed  -  flute  of 
the  shepherd  boy  twittered,  as  perhaps,  long  ago,  on 
the  great  mountain  that  looked  down  in  the  night 
above  the  village,  a  similar  flute  twittered  from  the 
woods  to  Empedocles  climbing  upward  for  the  last  time 
towards  the  plume  of  smoke  that  floated  from  the  vol- 
cano. And  then  Amedeo  and  Gaspare  danced  together 
and  Maurice's  arm  was  about  the  waist  of  Maddalena. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  danced  with  her, 
and  the  mutual  act  seemed  to  him  to  increase  their 
intimacy,  to  carry  them  a  step  forward  in  this  short 
and  curious  friendship  which  was  now,  surely,  very 
close  to  its  end.  They  did  not  speak  as  they  danced. 
Maddalena's  face  was  very  solemn,  like  the  face  of  one 
taking  part  in  an  important  ceremonial.  And  Maurice, 
too,  felt  serious,  even  sad.  The  darkness  and  heat  of 
the  room,  the  melancholy  with  which  all  the  tunes  of 
a  grinding  organ  seem  impregnated,  the  complicated 
sounds  from  the  fair  outside,  from  which  now  and  again 
the  voices  of  the  Roman  ice-venders  detached  them- 
selves, even  the  tapping  of  the  heavy  boots  of  the  dancers 
upon  the  floor  of  brick — all  things  in  this  hour  moved 
him  to  a  certain  dreariness  of  the  spirit  which  was 
touched  with  sentimentality.  This  fair  day  was  com- 
ing to  an  end.  He  felt  as  if  everything  were  coming  to 
an  end. 

Every  dog  has  his  day.  The  old  saying  came  to  his 
mind.  "Every  dog  has  his  day — and  mine  is  over." 

He  saw  in  the  dimness  of  the  room  the  face  of  Her- 
mione  at  the  railway  carriage  window.  It  was  the  face 
of  one  on  the  edge  of  some  great  beginning.  But  she 
did  not  know.  Hermione  did  not  know. 

The  dance  was  over.  Another  was  formed,  a  country- 
dance.  Again  Maurice  was  Maddalena's  partner.  Then 
317 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

came  "La  Fasola,"  in  which  Amedeo  proudly  showed 
forth  his  well-known  genius  and  Gaspare  rivalled  him. 
But  Maurice  thought  it  was  not  like  the  tarantella  upon 
the  terrace  before  the  house  of  the  priest.  The  brill- 
iancy, the  gayety  of  that  rapture  in  the  sun  were  not 
present  here  among  farewells.  A  longing  to  be  in  the 
open  air  under  the  stars  came  to  him,  and  when  at  last 
the  grinding  organ  stopped  he  said  to  Gaspare: 

"I'm  going  outside.  You'll  find  me  there  when 
you've  finished  dancing." 

"Va  bene,  signorino.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the 
fireworks  will  be  beginning." 

"And  then  we  must  start  off  at  once." 

"Si,  signore." 

The  organ  struck  up  again  and  Amedeo  took  hold  of 
Gaspare  by  the  waist. 

"Maddalena,  come  out  with  me." 

She  followed  him.  She  was  tired.  Festivals  were 
few  in  her  life,  and  the  many  excitements  of  this  long 
day  had  told  upon  her,  but  her  fatigue  was  the  fatigue 
of  happiness.  They  sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench  set 
against  the  outer  wall  of  the  house.  No  one  else  was 
sitting  there,  but  many  people  were  passing  to  and  fro, 
and  they  could  see  the  lamps  round  the  "Musica  Leon- 
cavallo," and  hear  it  fighting  and  conquering  the  twit- 
ter of  the  shepherd  boy's  flute  and  the  weary  wheezing 
of  the  organ  within  the  house.  A  great,  looming  dark- 
ness rising  towards  the  stars  dominated  the  humming 
village.  Etna  was  watching  over  the  last  glories  of  the 
fair. 

"Have  you  been  happy  to-day,  Maddalena?"  Mau- 
rice asked. 

"Si,  signore,  very  happy.     And  you?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"It  will  all  be  very  different  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

He  was  trying  to  realize  to-morrow,  but  he  could  not. 

"We  need  not  think  of  to-morrow,"  Maddalena  said. 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

She  arranged  her  skirt  with  her  hands,  and  crossed 
one  foot  over  the  other. 

"  Do  you  always  live  for  the  day  ?"  Maurice  asked  her. 

She  did  not  understand  him. 

"I  do  not  want  to  think  of  to-morrow,"  she  said. 
"There  will  be  no  fair  then." 

"And  you  would  like  always  to  be  at  the  fair?" 

"Si,  signore,  always." 

There  was  a  great  conviction  in  her  simple  state- 
ment. 

"And  you,  signorino?" 

She  was  curious  about  him  to-night. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  like,"  he  said. 

He  looked  up  at  the  great  darkness  of  Etna,  and 
again  a  longing  came  to  him  to  climb  up,  far  up,  into 
those  beech  forests  that  looked  towards  the  Isles  of 
Lipari.  He  wanted  greater  freedom.  Even  the  fair 
was  prison. 

"But  I  think,"  he  said,  after  a  pause — "I  think  I 
should  like  to  carry  you  off,  Maddalena,  up  there,  far 
up  on  Etna." 

He  remembered  his  feeling  when  he  had  put  his  arms 
round  her  in  the  dance.  It  had  been  like  putting  his 
arms  round  ignorance  that  wanted  to  be  knowledge. 
Who  would  be  Maddalena's  teacher?  Not  he.  And 
yet  he  had  almost  intended  to  have  his  revenge  upon 
Salvatore. 

"Shall  we  go  now?"  he  said.  "Shall  we  go  off  to 
Etna,  Maddalena?" 

"Signorino!" 

She  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"We  must  go  home  after  the  fireworks." 

"Why  should  we?  Why  should  we  not  take  the 
donkeys  now?  Gaspare  is  dancing.  Your  father  is 
playing  cards.  No  one  would  notice.  Shall  we  ?  Shall 
we  go  now  and  get  the  donkeys,  Maddalena?" 

But  she  replied: 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"A  girl  can  only  go  like  that  with  a  man  when  she  is 
married." 

"That's  not  true,"  he  said.  "She  can  go  like  that 
with  a  man  she  loves." 

"But  then  she  is  wicked,  and  the  Madonna  will  not 
hear  her  when  she  prays,  signorino." 

"Wouldn't  you  do  anything  for  a  man  you  really 
loved  ?  Wouldn't  you  forget  everything  ?  Wouldn't  you 
forget  even  the  Madonna?" 

She  looked  at  him. 

"Non  lo  so." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  answered. 

"Wouldn't  you  forget  the  Madonna  for  me?"  he 
whispered,  leaning  towards  her. 

There  was  a  loud  report  close  to  them,  a  whizzing 
noise,  a  deep  murmur  from  the  crowd,  and  in  the  clear 
sky  above  Etna  the  first  rocket  burst,  showering  down 
a  cataract  of  golden  stars,  which  streamed  towards  the 
earth,  leaving  trails  of  fire  behind  them. 

The  sound  of  the  grinding  organ  and  of  the  shep- 
herd boy's  flute  ceased  in  the  dancing-room,  and  the 
crowd  within  rushed  out  into  the  market-place. 

"Signorino!  Signorino!  Come  with  me!  We  can- 
not see  properly  here!  I  know  where  to  go.  There 
will  be  wheels  of  fire,  and  masses  of  flowers,  and  a  pict- 
ure of  the  Regina  Margherita.  Presto!  Presto!" 

Gaspare  had  hold  of  Maurice  by  the  arm. 

"E'  finite!"  Maurice  murmured. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  last  day  of  his  wild  youth 
was  at  an  end. 

"E"  finite!"  he  repeated. 

But  there  was  still  an  hour. 

And  who  can  tell  what  an  hour  will  bring  forth  j1 


XVII 

IT  was  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Maurice 
and  Gaspare  said  good-bye  to  Maddalena  and  her  father 
on  the  road  by  Isola  Bella.  Salvatore  had  left  the  three 
donkeys  at  Cattaro,  and  had  come  the  rest  of  the  way 
on  foot,  while  Maddalena  rode  Gaspare's  beast. 

"The  donkey  you  bought  is  for  Maddalena,"  Maurice 
had  said  to  him. 

And  the  fisherman  had  burst  into  effusive  thanks. 
But  already  he  had  his  eye  on  a  possible  customer  in 
Cattaro.  As  soon  as  the  Inglese  had  gone  back  to  his 
own  country  the  donkey  would  be  resold  at  a  good 
price.  What  did  a  fisherman  want  with  donkeys,  and 
how  was  an  animal  to  be  stabled  on  the  Sirens'  Isle  ? 
As  soon  as  the  Inglese  was  gone,  Salvatore  meant  to 
put  a  fine  sum  of  money  into  his  pocket. 

"  Addio,  signorino!"  he  said,  sweeping  off  his  hat  with 
the  wild,  half-impudent  gesture  that  was  peculiar  to 
him.  "I  kiss  your  hand  and  I  kiss  the  hand  of  your 
signora." 

He  bent  down  his  head  as  if  he  were  going  to  trans- 
late the  formal  phrase  into  an  action,  but  Maurice  drew 
back. 

"  Addio,  Salvatore,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  low. 

"Addio,  Maddalena!"  he  added. 

She  murmured  something  in  reply.  Salvatore  looked 
keenly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Are  you  tired,  Maddalena?"  he  asked,  with  a  sort 
of  rough  suspicion. 

321 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Si,"  she  answered. 

She  followed  him  slowly  across  the  railway  line  tow- 
ards the  sea,  while  Maurice  and  Gaspare  turned  their 
donkeys'  heads  towards  the  mountain. 

They  rode  upward  in  silence.  Gaspare  was  sleepy. 
His  head  nodded  loosely  as  he  rode,  but  his  hands 
never  let  go  their  careful  hold  of  the  clock.  Round 
about  him  his  many  purchases  were  carefully  disposed, 
fastened  elaborately  to  the  big  saddle.  The  roses, 
faded  now,  were  still  above  his  ears.  Maurice  rode  be- 
hind. He  was  not  sleepy.  He  felt  as  if  he  would  never 
sleep  again. 

As  they  drew  nearer  to  the  house  of  the  priest,  Gas- 
pare pulled  himself  together  with  an  effort,  half -turned 
on  his  donkey,  and  looked  round  at  his  padrone. 

"Signorino!" 

"Si." 

"Do  you  think  the  signora  will  be  asleep?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  suppose  so." 

The  boy  looked  wise. 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  he  said,  firmly. 

"What — at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning!" 

"I  think  the  signora  will  be  on  the  terrace  watching 
for  us." 

Maurice's  lips  twitched. 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  he  replied. 

He  tried  to  speak  carelessly,  but  where  was  his  ha- 
bitual carelessness  of  spirit,  his  carelessness  of  a  boy 
now  ?  He  felt  that  he  had  lost  it  forever,  lost  it  in  that 
last  hour  of  the  fair. 

"Signorino!" 

"Well?" 

"Where  were  you  and  Maddalena  when  I  was  help- 
ing with  the  fireworks?" 

"Close  by." 

"Did  you  see  them  all?  Did  you  see  the  Regina 
Margherita  ?" 

322 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Si." 

"I  looked  round  for  you,  but  I  could  not  see  you." 

"There  was  such  a  crowd  and  it  was  dark." 

"Yes.     Then  you  were  there,  where  I  left  you?" 

"  We  may  have  moved  a  little,  but  we  were  not  far  off." 

"  I  cannot  think  why  I  could  not  find  you  when  the 
fireworks  were  over." 

"It  was  the  crowd.  I  thought  it  best  to  go  to  the 
stable  without  searching  for  you.  I  knew  you  and  Sal- 
vatore  would  be  there." 

The  boy  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"  Salvatore  was  very  angry  when  he  saw  me  come  into 
the  stable  without  you." 

"Why?" 

"He  said  I  ought  not  to  have  left  my  padrone." 

"And  what  did  you  say  ?" 

"  I  told  him  I  would  not  be  spoken  to  by  him.  If  you 
had  not  come  in  just  then  I  think  there  would  have  been 
a  baruffa.  Salvatore  is  a  bad  man,  and  always  ready 
with  his  knife.  And  he  had  been  drinking." 

"He  was  quiet  enough  coming  home." 

"I  do  not  like  his  being  so  quiet." 

"What  does  it  matter?" 

Again  there  was  a  pause.     Then  Gaspare  said: 

"Now  that  the  signora  has  come  back  we  shall  not  go 
any  more  to  the  Casa  delle  Sirene,  shall  we?" 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  we  shall  go  any  more." 

"It  is  better  like  that,  signorino.  It  is  much  better 
that  we  do  not  go." 

Maurice  said  nothing. 

"We  have  been  there  too  often,"  added  Gaspare.  "I 
am  glad  the  signora  has  come  back.  I  am  sorry  she 
ever  went  away." 

"  It  was  not  our  fault  that  she  went,"  Maurice  said,  in  a 
hard  voice  like  that  of  a  man  trying  to  justify  something, 
to  defend  himself  against  some  accusation.     "We  did 
not  want  the  signora  to  go." 
323 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"No,  signore." 

Gaspare's  voice  sounded  almost  apologetic.  He  was 
a  little  startled  by  his  padrone's  tone. 

"It  was  a  pity  she  went,"  he  continued.  "The  poor 
signora — " 

"Why  is  it  such  a  pity?"  Maurice  interrupted,  almost 
roughly,  almost  suspiciously.  "Why  do  you  say  'the 
poor  signora'  ?" 

Gaspare  stared  at  him  with  open  surprise. 

"I  only  meant — " 

"The  signora  wished  to  go  to  Africa.  She  decided  for 
herself.  There  is  no  reason  to  call  her  the  poor  signora." 

"No,  signore." 

The  boy's  voice  recalled  Maurice  to  prudence. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  her  to  go,"  he  said,  more  quietly. 
"Perhaps  she  has  saved  the  life  of  the  sick  signore  by 
going." 

"Si,  signore." 

Gaspare  said  no  more,  but  as  they  rode  up,  drawing 
ever  nearer  to  the  bare  mountain-side  and  the  house  of 
the  priest,  Maurice's  heart  reiterated  the  thought  of  the 
boy.  Why  had  Hermione  ever  gone  ?  What  a  madness 
it  had  all  been,  her  going,  his  staying!  He  knew  it  now 
for  a  madness,  a  madness  of  the  summer,  of  the  hot,  the 
burning  south.  In  this  terrible  quiet  of  the  mountains, 
without  the  sun,  without  the  laughter  and  the  voices 
and  the  movement  of  men,  he  understood  that  he  had 
been  mad,  that  there  had  been  something  in  him,  not 
all  himself,  which  had  run  wild,  despising  restraint. 
And  he  had  known  that  it  was  running  wild,  and  he  had 
thought  to  let  it  go  just  so  far  and  no  farther.  He  had 
set  a  limit  of  time  to  his  wildness  and  its  deeds.  And 
he  had  set  another  limit.  Surely  he  had.  He  had  not 
ever  meant  to  go  too  far.  And  then,  just  when  he  had 
said  to  himself  "E'  finito!"  the  irrevocable  was  at  hand, 
the  moment  of  delirium  in  which  all  things  that  should 
have  been  remembered  were  forgotten.  What  had  led 
324 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

him  ?  What  spirit  of  evil  ?  Or  had  he  been  led  at  all  ? 
Had  not  he  rather  deliberately  forced  his  way  to  the 
tragic  goal  whither,  through  all  these  sunlit  days,  these 
starry  nights,  his  feet  had  been  tending? 

He  looked  upon  himself  as  a  man  looks  upon  a  stranger 
whom  he  has  seen  commit  a  crime  which  he  could  never 
have  committed.  Mentally  he  took  himself  into  custody, 
he  tried,  he  condemned  himself.  In  this  hour  of  acute 
reaction  the  cool  justice  of  the  Englishman  judged  the 
passionate  impulse  of  the  Sicilian,  even  marvelled  at  it, 
and  the  heart  of  the  dancing  Faun  cried:  "What  am  I — 
what  am  I  really  ?"  and  did  not  find  the  answer. 

"Signorino?" 

"Yes,  Gaspare." 

"When  we  get  to  that  rock  we  shall  see  the  house." 

"I  know." 

How  eagerly  he  had  looked  upward  to  the  little  white 
house  on  the  mountain  on  that  first  day  in  Sicily,  with 
what  joy  of  anticipation,  with  what  an  exquisite  sense 
of  liberty  and  of  peace!  The  drowsy  wail  of  the  "Pas- 
torale" had  come  floating  down  to  him  over  the  olive- 
trees  almost  like  a  melody  that  stole  from  paradise. 
But  now  he  dreaded  the  turn  of  the  path.  He  dreaded 
to  see  the  terrace  wall,  the  snowy  building  it  protected. 
And  he  felt  as  if  he  were  drawing  near  to  a  terror,  and 
as  if  he  could  not  face  it,  did  not  know  how  to  face  it. 

"Signorino,  there  is  no  light!     Look!" 

"The  signora  and  Lucrezia  must  be  asleep  at  this 
hour." 

"If  they  are,  what  are  we  to  do?  Shall  we  wake 
them  ?" 

"No,  no." 

He  spoke  quickly,  in  hope  of  a  respite. 

"We  will  wait — we  will  not  disturb  them." 

Gaspare  looked  down  at  the  parcel  he  was  holding 
with  such  anxious  care. 

"I  would  like  to  play  the  'Tre  Colori,'"  he  said.  "I 
325 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

would  like  the  first  thing  the  signora  hears  when  she 
wakes  to  be  the  'Tre  Colon.'" 

"Hush!     We  must  be  very  quiet." 

The  noise  made  on  the  path  by  the  tripping  feet  of  the 
donkeys  was  almost  intolerable  to  him.  It  must  surely 
wake  the  deepest  sleeper.  They  were  now  on  the  last 
ascent  where  the  mountain-side  was  bare.  Some  stones 
rattled  downward,  causing  a  sharp,  continuous  sound. 
It  was  answered  by  another  sound,  which  made  both 
Gaspare  and  Maurice  draw  rein  and  pull  up. 

As  on  that  first  day  in  Sicily  Maurice  had  been  wel- 
comed by  the  "Pastorale,"  so  he  was  welcomed  by  it  now. 
What  an  irony  that  was  to  him!  For  an  instant  his  lips 
curved  in  a  bitter  smile.  But  the  smile  died  away  as  he 
realized  things,  and  a  strange  sadness  took  hold  of  his 
heart.  For  it  was  not  the  ceramella  that  he  heard  in 
this  still  hour,  but  a  piano  played  softly,  monotonously, 
with  a  dreamy  tenderness  that  made  it  surely  one  with 
the  tenderness  of  the  deep  night.  And  he  knew  that 
Hermione  had  been  watching,  that  she  had  heard  him 
coming,  that  this  was  her  welcome,  a  welcome  from  the 
depths  of  her  pure,  true  heart.  How  much  the  music 
told  him!  How  clearly  it  spoke  to  him!  And  how  its 
caress  flagellated  his  bare  soul!  Hermione  had  returned 
expectant  of  welcome  and  had  found  nothing,  and  in- 
stead of  coming  out  upon  the  terrace,  instead  of  showing 
surprise,  vexation,  jealous  curiosity,  of  assuming  the 
injured  air  that  even  a  good  woman  can  scarcely  resist 
displaying  in  a  moment  of  acute  disappointment,  she 
sent  forth  this  delicate  salutation  to  him  from  afar,  the 
sweetest  that  she  knew,  the  one  she  herself  loved  best. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  listened.  Then  he  shut 
his  eyes  and  said  to  himself,  shuddering: 

"Oh,  you  beast!  you  beast!" 

"It  is  the  signora!"  said  Gaspare,  turning  round  on 
his  donkey.     "  She  does  not  know  we  are  here,  and  she 
is  playing  to  keep  herself  awake." 
326 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

He  looked  down  at  his  clock,  and  his  eyes  began  to 
shine. 

"  I  am  glad  the  signora  is  awake!"  he  said..  "  Signorino, 
let  us  get  off  the  donkeys  and  leave  them  at  the  arch, 
and  let  us  go  in  without  any  noise." 

"But  perhaps  the  signora  knows  that  we  are  here," 
Maurice  said. 

Directly  he  had  heard  the  music  he  had  known  that 
Hermione  was  aware  of  their  approach. 

"No,  no,  signore.  I  am  sure  she  does  not,  or  she 
would  have  come  out  to  meet  us.  Let  us  leave  the 
donkeys!" 

He  sprang  off  softly.  Mechanically,  Maurice  followed 
his  example. 

"Now,  signore!" 

The  boy  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  on  tiptoe 
to  the  terrace,  making  him  crouch  down  close  to  the 
open  French  window.  The  "  Pastorale ' '  was  louder  here. 
It  never  ceased,  but  returned  again  and  again  with  the 
delicious  monotony  that  made  it  memorable  and  wove 
a  spell  round  those  who  loved  it.  As  he  listened  to  it, 
Maurice  fancied  he  could  hear  the  breathing  of  the  player, 
and  he  felt  that  she  was  listening,  too,  listening  tensely 
for  footsteps  on  the  terrace. 

Gaspare  looked  up  at  him  with  bright  eyes.  The 
boy's  whole  face  was  alive  with  a  gay  and  mischievous 
happiness,  as  he  turned  the  handle  at  the  back  of  his 
clock  slowly,  slowly,  till  at  last  it  would  turn  no  more. 
Then  there  tinkled  forth  to  join  the  "Pastorale "  the  clear, 
trilling  melody  of  the  "Tre  Colori." 

The  music  in  the  room  ceased  abruptly.  There  was  a 
rustling  sound  as  the  player  moved.  Then  Hermione's 
voice,  with  something  trembling  through  it  that  was  half 
a  sob,  half  a  little  burst  of  happy  laughter,  called  out: 

"  Gaspare,  how  dare  you  interrupt  my  concert  ?" 

"Signora!     Signora!"  cried  Gaspare,  and,  springing 
up,  he  darted  into  the  sitting-room. 
327 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

But  Maurice,  though  he  lifted  himself  up  quickly,  stood 
where  he  was  with  his  hand  set  hard  against  the  wall  of 
the  house.  He  heard  Gaspare  kiss  Hermione's  hand. 
Then  he  heard  her  say: 

"But,  but,  Gaspare — " 

He  took  his  hand  from  the  wall  with  an  effort.  His 
feet  seemed  glued  to  the  ground,  but  at  last  he  was  in 
the  room. 

"Hermione!"  he  said. 

"Maurice!" 

He  felt  her  strong  hands,  strong  and  yet  soft  like  all 
the  woman,  on  his. 

"Cento  di  questi  giorni!"  she  said.  "Ah,  but  it  is 
better  than  all  the  birthdays  in  the  world!" 

He  wanted  to  kiss  her — not  to  please  her,  but  for  him- 
self he  wanted  to  kiss  her — but  he  dared  not.  He  felt 
that  if  his  lips  were  to  touch  hers — she  must  know.  To 
excuse  his  avoidance  of  the  natural  greeting  he  looked 
at  Gaspare. 

"  I  know!"  she  whispered.     "  You  haven't  forgotten!" 

She  was  alluding  to  that  morning  on  the  terrace  when 
he  came  up  from  the  fishing.  They  loosed  their  hands. 
Gaspare  set  the  clock  playing  again. 

"What  a  beauty!"  Hermione  said,  glad  to  hide  her 
emotion  for  a  moment  till  she  and  Maurice  could  be 
alone.  "What  a  marvel!  Where  did  you  find  it,  Gas- 
pare— at  the  fair?" 

"Si,  signora!" 

Solemnly  he  handed  it,  still  playing  brightly,  to  his 
padrona,  just  a  little  reluctantly,  perhaps,  but  very  gal- 
lantly. 

"It  is  for  you,  signora." 

"A  present — oh,  Gaspare!" 

Again  her  voice  was  veiled.  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  touched  the  boy's  hand. 

"Grazie!  How  sweetly  it  plays!  You  thought  of 
me!" 

328 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

There  was  a  silence  till  the  tune  was  finished.  Then 
Maurice  said: 

"Hermione,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  That  we 
should  be  at  the  fair  the  day  you  arrived!  Why — why 
didn't  you  tell  me?  Why  didn't  you  write?" 

"You  didn't  know,  then!" 

The  words  came  very  quickly,  very  eagerly. 

"Know!  Didn't  Lucrezia  tell  you  that  we  had  no 
idea?" 

"Poor  Lucrezia!  She's  in  a  dreadful  condition.  I 
found  her  in  the  village." 

"  No!"  Maurice  cried,  thankful  to  turn  the  conversation 
from  himself,  though  only  for  an  instant.  "I  specially 
told  her  to  stay  here.  I  specially — " 

"Well,  but,  poor  thing,  as  you  weren't  expecting  me! 
But  I  wrote,  Maurice,  I  wrote  a  letter  telling  you  every- 
thing, the  hour  we  were  coming — " 

"It's  Don  Paolo!"  exclaimed  Gaspare,  angrily.  "He 
hides  away  the  letters.  He  lets  them  lie  sometimes  in 
his  office  for  months.  To-morrow  I  will  go  and  tell  him 
what  I  think;  I  will  turn  out  every  drawer." 

"It  is  too  bad!"  Maurice  said. 

"Then  you  never  had  it  ?" 

"Hermione"  —  he  stared  at  the  open  door — "you 
think  we  should  have  gone  to  the  fair  if — 

"No,  no,  I  never  thought  so.  I  only  wondered.  It 
all  seemed  so  strange." 

"It  is  too  horrible!"  Maurice  said,  with  heavy  em- 
phasis. "AndArtois — no  rooms  ready  for  him!  What 
can  he  have  thought?" 

"As  I  did,  that  there  had  been  a  mistake.  What 
does  it  matter  now  ?  Just  at  the  moment  I  was  dread- 
fully— oh,  dreadfully  disappointed.  I  saw  Gaspare  at  the 
fair.  And  you  saw  me,  Gaspare?" 

"  Si,  signora.  I  ran  all  the  way  to  the  station,  but  the 
train  had  gone." 

"But  I  didn't  see  you,  Maurice.     Where  were  you?" 
329 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Gaspare  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  Maurice  did  not 
give  him  time. 

"I  was  there,  too,  in  the  fair." 

"But  of  course  you  weren't  looking  at  the  train?" 

"Of  course  not.  And  when  Gaspare  told  me,  it  was 
too  late  to  do  anything.  We  couldn't  get  back  in  time, 
and  the  donkeys  were  tired,  and  so — " 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you  didn't  hurry  back.  What  good 
would  it  have  done  then  ?" 

There  was  a  touch  of  constraint  in  her  voice. 

"You  must  have  thought  I  should  be  in  bed." 

"Yes,  we  did." 

"And  so  I  ought  to  be  now.  I  believe  I  am  tremen- 
dously tired,  but — but  I'm  so  tremendously  something 
else  that  I  hardly  know." 

The  constraint  had  gone. 

"The  signora  is  happy  because  she  is  back  in  my 
country,"  Gaspare  remarked,  with  pride  and  an  air  of 
shrewdness. 

He  nodded  his  head.  The  faded  roses  shook  above 
his  ears.  Hermione  smiled  at  him. 

"He  knows  all  about  it,"  she  said.  "Well,  if  we  are 
ever  to  go  to  bed — 

Gaspare  looked  from  her  to  his  padrone. 

"Buona  notte,  signora,"  he  said,  gravely.  "Buona 
notte,  signorino.  Buon  riposo!" 

"Buon  riposo!"  echoed  Hermione.  "It  is  blessed  to 
hear  that  again.  I  do  love  the  clock,  Gaspare." 

The  boy  beamed  at  her  and  went  reluctantly  away  to 
find  the  donkeys.  At  that  moment  Maurice  would  have 
given  almost  anything  to  keep  him.  He  dreaded  un- 
speakably to  be  alone  with  Hermione.  But  it  had  to 
be.  He  must  face  it.  He  must  seem  natural,  happy. 

"Shall  I  put  the  clock  down?"  he  asked. 

He  went  to  her,  took  the  clock,  carried  it  to  the 
writing-table,  and  put  it  down.  . 

"Gaspare  was  so  happy  to  bring  it  to  you." 
330 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  turned.  He  felt  desperate.  He.  came  to  Her- 
mione  and  put  out  his  hands. 

"I  feel  so  bad  that  we  weren't  here,"  he  said. 

"That  is  it!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  deep  relief  in  her  voice.  Then 
she  had  been  puzzled  by  his  demeanor!  He  must  be 
natural ;  but  how  ?  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  never  in  all 
his  life  could  he  have  felt  innocent,  careless,  brave. 
Now  he  was  made  of  cowardice.  He  was  like  a  dog 
that  crawls  with  its  belly  to  the  floor.  He  got  hold  of 
Hermione's  hands. 

"I  feel — I  feel  horribly,  horribly  bad!" 

Speaking  the  absolute  truth,  his  voice  was  absolutely 
sincere,  and  he  deceived  her  utterly. 

"Maurice,"  she  said,  " I  believe  it's  upset  you  so  much 
that — that  you  are  shy  of  me." 

She  laughed  happily. 

"Shy — of  me!" 

He  tried  to  laugh,  too,  and  kissed  her  abruptly,  awk- 
wardly. All  his  natural  grace  was  gone  from  him.  But 
when  he  kissed  her  she  did  not  know  it;  her  lips  clung 
to  his  with  a  tender  passion,  a  fealty  that  terrified  him. 

"She  must  know!"  he  thought.  "She  must  feel  the 
truth.  My  lips  must  tell  it  to  her." 

And  when  at  last  they  drew  away  from  each  other 
his  eyes  asked  her  furiously  a  question,  asked  it  of  her 
eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Maurice?" 

He  said  nothing.  She  dropped  her  eyes  and  red- 
dened slowly,  till  she  looked  much  younger  than  usual, 
strangely  like  a  girl. 

"You  haven't — you  haven't — " 

There  was  a  sound  of  reserve  in  her  voice,  and  yet  a 
sound  of  triumph,  too.  She  looked  up  at  him  again. 

"Do  you  guess  that  I  have  something  to  tell  you?" 
she  said,  slowly. 

"Something  to  tell  me?"  he  repeated,  dully. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  was  so  intent  on  himself,  on  his  own  evil-doing, 
that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  everything  must  have  some 
connection  with  it. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  quickly;  "no,  I  see  you  weren't." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  but  without  real  interest. 

"I  can't  tell  you  now,"  she  said. 

Gaspare  went  by  the  window  leading  the  donkeys. 

"Buona  notte,  signora!" 

It  was  a  very  happy  voice. 

"Buona  notte,  Gaspare.     Sleep  well." 

Maurice  caught  at  the  last  words. 

"  We  must  sleep,"  he  said.  "  To-morrow  we'll — we'll — " 

"Tell  each  other  everything.     Yes,  to-morrow!" 

She  put  her  arm  through  his. 

"Maurice,  if  you  knew  how  I  feel!" 

"Yes?"  he  said,  trying  to  make  his  voice  eager, 
buoyant.  "Yes?" 

"If  you  knew  how  I've  been  longing  to  be  back! 
And  so  often  I've  thought  that  I  never  should  be  here 
with  you  again,  just  in  the  way  we  were!" 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"Why?" 

"It  is  so  difficult  to  repeat  a  great,  an  intense  happi- 
ness, I  think.  But  we  will,  we  are  repeating  it,  aren't 
we?" 

"Yes." 

"When  I  got  to  the  station  to-day,  and — and  you 
weren't  there,  I  had  a  dreadful  foreboding.  It  was  fool- 
ish. The  explanation  of  your  not  being  there  was  so 
simple.  Of  course  I  might  have  guessed  it." 

"Of  course." 

"  But  in  the  first  moment  I  felt  as  if  you  weren't  there 
because  I  had  lost  you  forever,  because  you  had  been 
taken  away  from  me  forever.  It  was  such  an  intense 
feeling  that  it  frightened  me — it  frightened  me  horribly. 
Put  your  arm  round  me,  Maurice.  Let  me  feel  what 
an  idiot  I  have  been!" 

332 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  obeyed  her  and  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  he  felt 
as  if  his  arm  must  tell  her  what  she  had  not  learned 
from  his  lips.  And  she  thought  that  now  he  must 
know  the  truth  she  had  not  told  him. 

"Don't  think  of  dreadful  things,"  he  said. 

"  I  won't  any  more.  I  don't  think  I  could  with  you. 
To  me  you  always  mean  the  sun,  light,  and  life,  and  all 
that  is  brave  and  beautiful!" 

He  took  his  arm  away  from  her. 

"Come,  we  must  sleep,  Hermione!"  he  said.  "It's 
nearly  dawn.  I  can  almost  see  the  smoke  on  Etna." 

He  shut  the  French  window  and  drew  the  bolt. 

She  had  gone  into  the  bedroom  and  was  standing  by 
the  dressing-table.  She  did  not  know  why,  but  a  great 
shyness  had  come  upon  her.  It  was  like  a  cloud  en- 
veloping her.  Never  before  had  she  felt  like  this  with 
Maurice,  not  even  when  they  were  first  married.  She 
had  loved  him  too  utterly  to  be  shy  with  him.  Maurice 
was  still  in  the  sitting-room,  fastening  the  shutters  of  the 
window.  She  heard  the  creak  of  wood,  the  clatter  of 
the  iron  bar  falling  into  the  fastener.  Now  he  would 
come. 

But  he  did  not  come.  He  was  moving  about  in  the 
room.  She  heard  papers  rustling,  then  the  lid  of  the 
piano  shut  down.  He  was  putting  everything  in  order. 

This  orderliness  was  so  unusual  in  Maurice  that  it  made 
a  disagreeable  impression  upon  her.  She  began  to  feel 
as  if  he  did  not  want  to  come  into  the  bedroom,  as  if 
he  were  trying  to  put  off  the  moment  of  coming.  She 
remembered  that  he  had  seemed  shy  of  her.  What  had 
come  to  them  both  to-night  ?  Her  instinct  moved  her 
to  break  through  this  painful,  this  absurd  constraint. 

"Mauricel"  she  called. 

"Yes." 

His  voice  sounded  odd  to  her,  almost  like  the  voice 
of  some  other  man,  some  stranger. 

"Aren't  you  coming?" 

333 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

"Yes.  Hermione." 

But  still  he  did  not  come.     After  a  moment,  he  said: 

"It's  awfully  hot  to-night!" 

"After  Africa  it  seems  quite  cool  to  me." 

"Does  it?  I've  been — since  you've  been  away  I've 
been  sleeping  nearly  always  out-of-doors  on  the  terrace." 

Now  he  came  to  the  doorway  and  stood  there.  He 
looked  at  the  white  room,  at  Hermione.  She  had  on 
a  white  tea-gown.  It  seemed  to  him  that  everything 
here  was  white,  everything  but  his  soul.  He  felt  as  if 
he  could  not  come  into  this  room,  could  not  sleep  here 
to-night,  as  if  it  would  be  a  desecration.  When  he 
stood  in  the  doorway  the  painful  shyness  returned  to 
her. 

"Have  you?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you — would  you  rather  sleep  there  to-night?" 

She  did  not  mean  to  say  it.  It  was  the  last  thing  she 
wished  to  say.  Yet  she  said  it.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  forced  to  say  it. 

"Well,  it's  much  cooler  there." 

She  was  silent. 

"I  could  just  put  one  or  two  rugs  and  cushions  on 
the  seat  by  the  wall,"  he  said.  "I  shall  sleep  like  a 
top.  I'm  awfully  tired!" 

"But — but  the  sun  will  soon  be  up,  won't  it?" 

"Oh — then  I  can  come  in." 

"All  right." 

"I'll  take  the  rugs  from  the  sitting-room.  I  say — 
how's  Artois?" 

"  Much  better,  but  he's  still  weak." 

"Poor  chap!" 

"He'll  ride  up  to-morrow  on  a  donkey." 

"Good!  I'm  —  I'm  most  awfully  sorry  about  his 
rooms." 

"What  does  it  matter?     I've  made  them  quite  nice 
already.     He's  perfectly  comfortable." 
334 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"I'm  glad.  It's  all — it's  all  been  such  a  pity — about 
to-day,  I  mean." 

"Don't  let's  think  of  it!  Don't  let's  think  of  it  any 
more." 

A  passionate  sound  had  stolen  into  her  voice.  She 
moved  a  step  towards  him.  A  sudden  idea  had  come 
to  her,  an  idea  that  stirred  within  her  a  great  happiness, 
that  made  a  flame  of  joy  spring  up  in  her  heart. 

"Maurice,  you — you — " 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"You  aren't  vexed  at  my  staying  away  so  long? 
You  aren't  vexed  at  my  bringing  Emile  back  with 
me?" 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said.  "  But — but  I  wish  you 
hadn't  gone  away." 

And  then  he  disappeared  into  the  sitting-room,  col- 
lected the  rugs  and  cushions,  opened  the  French  win- 
dow, and  went  out  upon  the  terrace.  Presently  he 
called  out: 

"  I  shall  sleep  as  I  am,  Hermione,  without  undressing. 
I'm  awfully  done.  Good-night." 

"Good-night!"  she  called. 

There  was  a  quiver  in  her  voice.  And  yet  that  flame 
of  happiness  had  not  quite  died  down.  She  said  to  her- 
self: 

"  He  doesn't  want  me  to  know.  He's  too  proud.  But 
he  has  been  a  little  jealous,  perhaps."  She  remembered 
how  Sicilian  he  was. 

"  But  I'll  make  him  forget  it  all,"  she  thought,  eagerly. 
"To-morrow  —  to-morrow  it  will  be  all  right.  He's 
missed  me,  he's  missed  me!" 

That  thought  was  very  sweet  to  her.  It  seemed  to 
explain  all  things;  this  constraint  of  her  husband,  which 
had  reacted  upon  her,  this  action  of  his  in  preferring  to 
sleep  outside — everything.  He  had  always  been  like  a 
boy.  He  was  like  a  boy  now.  He  could  not  conceal 
his  feelings.  He  did  not  doubt  her.  She  knew  that. 
S3  5 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

But  he  had  been  a  little  jealous  about  her  friendship 
for  Emile. 

She  undressed.  When  she  was  ready  for  bed  she 
hesitated  a  moment.  Then  she  put  a  white  shawl 
round  her  shoulders  and  stole  quickly  out  of  the  room. 
She  came  upon  the  terrace.  The  stars  were  waning. 
The  gray  of  the  dawn  was  in  the  sky  towards  the  east. 
Maurice,  stretched  upon  the  rugs,  with  his  face  turned 
towards  the  terrace  wall,  was  lying  still.  She  went  to 
him,  bent  down,  and  kissed  him. 

"I  love  you,"  she  whispered — "oh,  so  much!" 

She  did  not  wait,  but  went  away  at  once.  When  she 
was  gone  he  put  up  his  hand  to  his  face.  On  his  cheek 
there  was  a  tear. 

"God  forgive  me!"  he  said  to  himself.  "God  for- 
give me!" 

His  body  was  shaken  by  a  sob. 


XVIII 

WHEN  the  sun  came  up  over  the  rim  of  the  sea  Mau- 
rice ceased  from  his  pretence  of  sleep,  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow,  then  sat  upright  and  looked  over  the  ravine  to 
the  rocks  of  the  Sirens'  Isle.  The  name  seemed  to  him 
now  a  fatal  name,  and  everything  connected  with  his 
sojourn  in  Sicily  fatal.  Surely  there  had  been  a  malign 
spirit  at  work.  In  this  early  morning  hour  his  brain, 
though  unrefreshed  by  sleep,  was  almost  unnaturally 
clear,  feverishly  busy.  Something  had  met  him  when 
he  first  set  foot  in  Sicily — so  he  thought  now — had  met 
him  with  a  fixed  and  evil  purpose.  And  that  purpose 
had  never  been  abandoned. 

Old  superstitions,  inherited  perhaps  from  a  long  chain 
of  credulous  Sicilian  ancestors,  were  stirring  in  him. 
He  did  not  laugh  at  his  idea,  as  a  pure-blooded  English- 
man would  have  laughed.  He  pondered  it.  He  cher- 
ished it. 

On  his  very  first  evening  in  Sicily  the  spirit  had  led 
him  to  the  wall,  had  directed  his  gaze  to  the  far-off 
light  in  the  house  of  the  sirens.  He  remembered  how 
strangely  the  little  light  had  fascinated  his  eyes,  and 
his  mind  through  his  eyes,  how  he  had  asked  what  it 
was,  how,  when  Hermione  had  called  him  to  come  in 
to  sleep,  he  had  turned  upon  the  steps  to  gaze  down  on 
it  once  more.  Then  he  had  not  known  why  he  gazed. 
Now  he  knew.  The  spirit  that  had  met  him  by  the 
sea  in  Sicily  had  whispered  to  him  to  look,  and  he  had 
obeyed  because  he  could  not  do  otherwise. 

He  dwelt  upon  that  thought,  that  he  had  obeyed  be- 
337 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

cause  he  had  been  obliged  to  obey.  It  was  a  palliative 
to  his  mental  misery  and  his  hatred  of  himself.  The 
fatalism  that  is  linked  with  superstition  got  hold  upon 
him  and  comforted  him  a  little.  He  had  not  been  a 
free  agent.  He  had  had  to  do  as  he  had  done.  Every- 
thing had  been  arranged  so  that  he  might  sin.  The 
night  of  the  fishing  had  prepared  the  way  for  the  night 
of  the  fair.  If  Hermione  had  stayed — but  of  course 
she  had  not  stayed.  The  spirit  that  had  kept  him  in 
Sicily  had  sent  her  across  the  sea  to  Africa.  In  the 
full  flush  of  his  hot-blooded  youth,  intoxicated  by  his 
first  knowledge  of  the  sun  and  of  love,  he  had  been  left 
quite  alone.  Newly  married,  he  had  been  abandoned 
by  his  wife  for  a  good,  even  perhaps  a  noble,  reason. 
Still,  he  had  been  abandoned — to  himself  and  the  keep- 
ing of  that  spirit.  Was  it  any  wonder  that  he  had 
fallen?  He  strove  to  think  that  it  was  not.  In  the 
night  he  had  cowered  before  Hermione  and  had  been 
cruel  with  himself.  Now,  in  the  sunshine,  he  showed 
fight.  He  strove  to  find  excuses  for  himself.  If  he 
did  not  find  excuses  he  felt  that  he  could  not  face  the 
day,  face  Hermione  in  sunlight. 

And  now  that  the  spirit  had  led  him  thus  far,  surely 
its  work  was  done,  surely  it  would  leave  him  alone.  He 
tried  to  believe  that. 

Then  he  thought  of  Maddalena. 

She  was  there,  down  there  where  the  rising  sun 
glittered  on  the  sea.  She  surely  was  awake,  as  he  was 
awake.  She  was  thinking,  wondering — perhaps  weep- 
ing. 

He  got  up.  He  could  not  look  at  the  sea  any  more. 
The  name  "House  of  the  Sirens"  suddenly  seemed  to 
him  a  terrible  misnomer,  now  that  he  thought  of  Madda- 
lena perhaps  weeping  by  the  sea. 

He  had  his  revenge  upon  Salvatore,  but  at  what  a 
cost! 

Salvatore!  The  fisherman's  face  rose  up  before  him. 
338 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

If  he  ever  knew!  Maurice  remembered  his  sensation  that 
already,  before  he  had  done  the  fisherman  any  wrong, 
the  fisherman  had  condemned  him.  Now  there  was  a 
reason  for  condemnation.  He  had  no  physical  fear  of 
Salvatore.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be  physically  afraid 
of  another  man.  But  if  Salvatore  ever  knew  he  might 
tell.  He  might  tell  Hermione.  That  thought  brought 
with  it  to  Maurice  a  cold  as  of  winter.  The  malign  spirit 
might  still  have  a  purpose  in  connection  with  him,  might 
still  be  near  him  full  of  intention.  He  felt  afraid  of  the 
Sicily  he  had  loved.  He  longed  to  leave  it.  He  thought 
of  it  as  an  isle  of  fear,  where  terrors  walked  in  the  midst 
of  the  glory  of  the  sunshine,  where  fatality  lurked  beside 
the  purple  sea. 

"Maurice!" 

He  started.  Hermione  was  on  the  steps  of  the  sit- 
ting-room. 

"You're  not  sleeping!"  he  said. 

He  felt  as  if  she  had  been  there  reading  all  his  thoughts. 

"And  you!"  she  answered. 

"The  sun  woke  me." 

He  lied  instinctively.  All  his  life  with  her  would  be 
a  lie  now,  could  never  be  anything  else — unless — 

He  looked  at  her  hard  and  long  in  the  eyes  for  the 
first  time  since  they  had  met  after  her  return.  Suppose 
he  were  to  tell  her,  now,  at  once,  in  the  stillness,  the 
wonderful  innocence  and  clearness  of  the  dawn!  For 
a  moment  he  felt  that  it  would  be  an  exquisite  relief, 
a  casting  down  of  an  intolerable  burden.  She  had  such 
a  splendid  nature.  She  loved  sincerity  as  she  loved 
God.  To  her  it  was  the  one  great  essential  quality, 
whose  presence  or  absence  made  or  marred  the  beauty 
of  a  human  soul.  He  knew  that. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  said,  coming 
down  to  him  with  the  look  of  slow  strength  that  was 
always  characteristic  of  her. 

He  dropped  his  eyes. 

339 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"I  don't  know.     How  do  you  mean?" 

"As  if  you  had  something  to  tell  me." 

"Perhaps — perhaps  I  have,"  he  answered. 

He  was  on  the  verge,  the  very  verge  of  confession. 
She  put  her  arm  through  his.  When  she  touched  him 
the  impulse  waned,  but  it  did  not  die  utterly  away. 

"Tell  it  me,"  she  said.  "I  love  to  hear  everything 
you  tell  me.  I  don't  think  you  could  ever  tell  me  any- 
thing that  I  should  not  understand." 

"Are  you — are  you  sure?" 

"I  think  so." 

"But" — he  suddenly  remembered  some  words  of 
hers  that,  till  then,  he  had  forgotten — "but  you  had 
something  to  tell  me." 

"Yes." 

"I  want  to  hear  it." 

He  could  not  speak  yet.  Perhaps  presently  he  would 
be  able  to. 

"Let  us  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  feel  as  if  we  could  see  the  whole  island  from 
there.  And  up  there  we  shall  get  all  the  wind  of  the 
morning." 

They  turned  towards  the  steep,  bare  slope  and 
climbed  it,  while  the  sun  rose  higher,  as  if  attending 
them.  At  the  summit  there  was  a  heap  of  stones. 

"Let  us  sit  here,"  Hermione  said.  "We  can  see 
everything  from  here,  all  the  glories  of  the  dawn." 

"Yes." 

He  was  so  intensely  preoccupied  by  the  debate  within 
him  that  he  did  not  remember  that  it  was  here,  among 
these  stones  where  they  were  sitting,  that  he  had  hidden 
the  fragments  of  Hermione's  letter  from  Africa  telling 
him  of  her  return  on  the  day  of  the  fair. 

They  sat  down  with  their  faces  towards  the  sea. 
The  air  up  here  was  exquisitely  cool.  In  the  pellucid 
clearness  of  dawn  the  coast-line  looked  enchanted,  fairy- 
like  and  full  of  delicate  mystery.  And  its  fading,  in  the 
340 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

far  distance,  was  like  a  calling  voice.  Behind  them  the 
ranges  of  mountains  held  a  few  filmy  white  clouds,  like 
laces,  about  their  rugged  peaks.  The  sea  was  a  pale 
blue  stillness,  shot  with  soft  grays  and  mauves  and 
pinks,  and  dotted  here  and  there  with  black  specks  that 
were  the  boats  of  fishermen. 

Hermione  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees. 
Her  face,  browned  by  the  African  sun,  was  intense  with 
feeling. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  at  last,  "I  can  tell  you  here." 

She  looked  at  the  sea,  the  coast-line,  then  turned  her 
head  and  gazed  at  the  mountains. 

"We  looked  at  them  together,"  she  continued — "that 
last  evening  before  I  went  away.  Do  you  remember, 
Maurice  ?" 

"Yes." 

"From  the  arch.  It  is  better  up  here.  Always, 
when  I  am  very  happy  or  very  sad,  my  instinct  would 
be  to  seek  a  mountain-top.  The  sight  of  great  spaces 
seen  from  a  height  teaches  one,  I  think." 

"What?" 

"Not  to  be  an  egoist  in  one's  joy;  not  to  be  a  craven 
in  one's  sorrow.  You  see,  a  great  view  suggests  the 
world,  the  vastness  of  things,  the  multiplicity  of  life. 
I  think  that  must  be  it.  And  of  course  it  reminds  one, 
too,  that  one  will  soon  be  going  away." 

"Going  away?" 

"Yes.     'The  mountains  will  endure' — but  we — !" 

"Oh,  you  mean  death." 

"Yes.  What  is  it  makes  one  think  most  of  death 
when — when  life,  new  life,  is  very  near?" 

She  had  been  gazing  at  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
but  now  she  turned  and  looked  into  his  face. 

"Don't  you  understand  what  I  have  to  tell  you?" 
she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  He  was  still  wondering  whether 
he  would  dare  to  tell  her  of  his  sin.  And  he  did  not 
34i 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

know.  At  one  moment  he  thought  that  he  could  do 
it,  at  another  that  he  would  rather  throw  himself  over 
the  precipice  of  the  mountain  than  do  it. 

"I  don't  understand  it  at  all." 

There  was  a  lack  of  interest  in  his  voice,  but  she  did 
not  notice  it.  She  was  full  of  the  wonder  of  the  morn- 
ing, the  wonder  of  being  again  with  him,  and  the  won- 
der of  what  she  had  to  tell  him. 

' '  Maurice ' ' — she  put  her  hand  on  his — ' '  the  night  I  was 
crossing  the  sea  to  Africa  I  knew.  All  these  days  I  have 
kept  this  secret  from  you  because  I  could  not  write  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  too  sacred.  I  felt  I  must  be  with  you 
when  I  told  it.  That  night  upon  the  sea  I  was  very 
sad.  I  could  not  sleep.  I  was  on  deck  looking  always 
back,  towards  Sicily  and  you.  And  just  when  the 
dawn  was  coming  I — I  knew  that  a  child  was  coming, 
too,  a  child  of  mine  and  yours." 

She  was  silent.  Her  hand  pressed  his,  and  now  she 
was  again  looking  towards  the  sea.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  her  face  was  new,  that  it  was  already  the  face 
of  a  mother. 

He  said  nothing  and  he  did  not  move.  He  looked 
down  at  the  heap  of  stones  by  which  they  were  sitting, 
and  his  eyes  rested  on  a  piece  of  paper  covered  with 
writing.  It  was  a  fragment  of  Hermione's  letter  to  him. 
As  he  saw  it  something  sharp  and  cold  like  a  weapon 
made  of  ice,  seemed  to  be  plunged  into  him.  He  got 
up,  pulling  hard  at  her  hand.  She  obeyed  his  hand. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  said,  as  they  stood  together.  "  You 
look — " 

He  had  become  pale.     He  knew  it. 

"Hermione!"  he  said. 

He  was  actually  panting  as  if  he  had  been  running. 
He  moved  a  few  steps  towards  the  edge  of  the  summit. 
She  followed  him. 

"You  are  angry  that  I  didn't   tell  you!     But  —  I 
wanted  to  say  it.     I  wanted  to— to — " 
342 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  lifted  his  hands  to  her  lips. 

"Thank  you  for  giving  me  a  child,"  she  said. 

Then  tears  came  into  his  eyes  and  ran  down  over  his 
cheeks.  That  he  should  be  thanked  by  her  —  that 
scourged  the  genuine  good  in  him  till  surely  blood  start- 
ed under  the  strokes. 

"Don't  thank  me!"  he  said.  "Don't  do  thatl  I 
won't  have  it!" 

His  voice  sounded  angry. 

"I  won't  ever  let  you  thank  me  for  anything,"  he 
went  on.  "You  must  understand  that." 

He  was  on  the  edge  of  some  violent,  some  almost 
hysterical  outburst.  He  thought  of  Gaspare  casting 
himself  down  in  the  boat  that  morning  when  he  had 
feared  that  his  padrone  was  drowned.  So  he  longed  to 
cast  himself  down  and  cry.  But  he  had  the  strength 
to  check  his  impulse.  Only,  the  checking  of  it  seemed 
to  turn  him  for  a  moment  into  something  made  not  of 
flesh  and  blood  but  of  iron.  And  this  thing  of  iron  was 
voiceless. 

She  knew  that  he  was  feeling  intensely  and  respected 
his  silence.  But  at  last  it  began  almost  to  frighten  her. 
The  boyish  look  she  loved  had  gone  out  of  his  face.  A 
stern  man  stood  beside  her,  a  man  she  had  never  seen 
before. 

"  Maurice,"  she  said,  at  length.  "  What  is  it  ?  I  think 
you  are  suffering." 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"But — but  aren't  you  glad?     Surely  you  are  glad?" 

To  her  the  word  seemed  mean,  poverty-stricken.  She 
changed  it. 

"Surely  you  are  thankful?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  at  last.  "I  am  think- 
ing that  I  don't  know  that  I  am  worthy  to  be  a  father." 

He  himself  had  fixed  a  limit.  Now,  God  was  putting 
a  period  to  his  wild  youth.  And  the  heart — was  that 
changed  within  him? 

343 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Too  much  was  happening.  The  cup  was  being  filled 
too  full.  A  great  longing  came  to  him  to  get  away,  far 
away,  and  be  alone.  If  it  had  been  any  other  day  he 
would  have  gone  off  into  the  mountains,  by  himself, 
have  stayed  out  till  night  came,  have  walked,  climbed, 
till  he  was  exhausted.  But  to-day  he  could  not  do  that. 
And  soon  Artois  would  be  coming.  He  felt  as  if  some- 
thing must  snap  in  brain  or  heart. 

And  he  had  not  slept.  How  he  wished  that  he  could 
sleep  for  a  little  while  and  forget  everything.  In  sleep 
one  knows  nothing.  He  longed  to  be  able  to  sleep. 

' ' I  understand  that , ' '  she  said .  "But  you  are  worthy , 
my  dear  one." 

When  she  said  that  he  knew,  that  he  could  never  tell 
her. 

"I  must  try,"  he  muttered.  "I'll  try  —  from  to- 
day." 

She  did  not  talk  to  him  any  more.  Her  instinct  told 
her  not  to.  Almost  directly  they  were  walking  down 
to  the  priest's  house.  She  did  not  know  which  of  them 
had  moved  first. 

When  they  got  there  they  found  Lucrezia  up.  Her 
eyes  were  red,  but  she  smiled  at  Hermione.  Then  she 
looked  at  the  padrone  with  alarm.  She  expected  him 
to  blame  her  for  having  disobeyed  his  orders  of  the  day 
before.  But  he  had  forgotten  all  about  that. 

"Get  breakfast,  Lucrezia,"  Hermione  said.  "We'll 
have  it  on  the  terrace.  And  presently  we  must  have  a 
talk.  The  sick  signore  is  coming  up  to-day  for  col- 
lazione.  We  must  have  a  very  nice  collazione,  but 
something  wholesome." 

"Si,  signora." 

Lucrezia  went  away  to  the  kitchen  thankfully.  She 
had  heard  bad  news  of  Sebastiano  yesterday  in  the 
village.  He  was  openly  in  love  with  the  girl  in  the 
Lipari  Isles.  Her  heart  was  almost  breaking,  but  the 
return  of  the  padrona  comforted  her  a  little.  Now  she 
344 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

had  some  one  to  whom  she  could  tell  her  trouble,  some 
one  who  would  sympathize. 

"I'll  go  and  take  a  bath,  Hermione,"  Maurice  said. 

And  he,  too,  disappeared. 

Hermione  went  to  talk  to  Gaspare  and  tell  him  what 
to  get  in  Marechiaro. 

When  breakfast  was  ready  Maurice  came  back  looking 
less  pale,  but  still  unboyish.  All  the  bright  sparkle  to 
which  Hermione  was  accustomed  had  gone  out  of  him. 
She  wondered  why.  She  had  expected  the  change  in 
him  to  be  a  passing  thing,  but  it  persisted. 

At  breakfast  it  was  obviously  difficult  for  him  to  talk. 
She  sought  a  reason  for  his  strangeness.  Presently  she 
thought  again  of  Artois.  Could  he  be  the  reason?  Or 
was  Maurice  now  merely  preoccupied  by  that  great, 
new  knowledge  that  there  would  soon  be  a  third  life 
mingled  with  theirs  ?  She  wondered  exactly  what  he 
felt  about  that.  He  was  really  such  a  boy  at  heart  de- 
spite his  set  face  of  to-day.  Perhaps  he  dreaded  the 
idea  of  responsibility.  His  agitation  upon  the  moun- 
tain-top had  been  intense.  Perhaps  he  was  rendered 
unhappy  by  the  thought  of  fatherhood.  Or  was  it 
Emile  ? 

When  breakfast  was  over,  and  he  was  smoking,  she 
said  to  him: 

"Maurice,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

A  startled  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"What?"  he  said,  quickly. 

He  threw  his  cigarette  away  and  turned  towards  her, 
with  a  sort  of  tenseness  that  suggested  to  her  a  man 
bracing  himself  for  some  ordeal. 

"Only  about  Emile." 

"Oh!"  he  said. 

He  took  another  cigarette,  and  his  attitude  at  once 
looked  easier.  She  wondered  why. 

"You  don't  mind  about  Emile  being  here,  do  you?" 

Maurice  was  nearly  answering  quickly  that  he  was  de- 
345 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

lighted  to  welcome  him.  But  a  suddenly  born  shrewd- 
ness prevented  him.  To-day,  like  a  guilty  man,  he  was 
painfully  conscious,  painfully  alert.  He  knew  that 
Hermione  was  wondering  about  him,  and  realized  that 
her  question  afforded  him  an  opportunity  to  be  deceptive 
and  yet  to  seem  quite  natural  and  truthful.  He  could 
not  be  as  he  had  been,  to-day.  The  effort  was  far  too 
difficult  for  him.  Hermione's  question  showed  him  a 
plausible  excuse  for  his  peculiarity  of  demeanor  and 
conduct.  He  seized  it. 

"  I  think  it  was  very  natural  for  you  to  bring  him,"  he 
answered. 

He  lit  the  cigarette.     His  hand  was  trembling  slightly. 

"But — but  you  had  rather  I  hadn't  brought  him?" 

As  Maurice  began  to  act  a  part  an  old  feeling  returned 
to  him,  and  almost  turned  his  lie  into  truth. 

"You  could  hardly  expect  me  to  wish  to  have  Artois 
with  us  here,  could  you,  Hermione?"  he  said,  slowly. 

She  scarcely  knew  whether  she  were  most  pained  or 
pleased.  She  was  pained  that  anything  she  had  done 
had  clouded  his  happiness,  but  she  was  intensely  glad 
to  think  he  loved  to  be  quite  alone  with  her. 

"  No,  I  felt  that.  But  I  felt,  too,  as  if  it  would  be  cruel 
to  stop  short,  unworthy  in  us." 

"In  us?" 

"Yes.  You  let  me  go  to  Africa.  You  might  have 
asked  me,  you  might  even  have  told  me,  not  to  go.  I 
did  not  think  of  it  at  the  time.  Everything  went  so 
quickly.  But  I  have  thought  of  it  since.  And,  know- 
ing that,  realizing  it,  I  feel  that  you  had  your  part,  a 
great  part,  in  Emile's  rescue.  For  I  do  believe,  Maurice, 
that  if  I  had  not  gone  he  would  have  died." 

"Then  I  am  glad  you  went." 

He  spoke  perfunctorily,  almost  formally.  Hermione 
felt  chilled. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that,  having  begun  to  do  a  good 
work,  it  would  be  finer,  stronger,  to  carry  it  quite  through, 
346 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

to  put  aside  our  own  desires  and  think  of  another  who 
had  passed  through  a  great  ordeal.  Was  I  wrong,  Mau- 
rice ?  Emile  is  still  very  weak,  very  dependent.  Ought 
I  to  have  said,  'Now  I  see  you're  not  going  to  die,  I'll 
leave  you  at  once.'  Wouldn't  it  have  been  rather  sel- 
fish, even  rather  brutal?" 

His  reply  startled  her. 

"  Have  you — have  you  ever  thought  of  where  we  are  ?" 
he  said. 

"Where  we  are!" 

"Of  the  people  we  are  living  among?" 

"I  don't  think  I  understand." 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"They're  Sicilians.  They  don't  see  things  as  the 
English  do,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  silence.  Hermione  felt  a  heat  rush  over 
her,  over  all  her  body  and  face.  She  did  not  speak, 
because,  if  she  had,  she  might  have  said  something 
vehement,  even  headstrong,  such  as  she  had  never  said, 
surely  never  would  say,  to  Maurice. 

"Of  course  I  understand.     It's  not  that,"  he  added. 

"No,  it  couldn't  be  that,"  she  said.  "You  needn't 
tell  me." 

The  hot  feeling  stayed  with  her.  She  tried  to  con- 
trol it. 

"You  surely  can't  mind  what  ignorant  people  out 
here  think  of  an  utterly  innocent  action!"  she  said,  at 
last,  very  quietly. 

But  even  as  she  spoke  she  remembered  the  Sicilian 
blood  in  him. 

"You  have  minded  it!"  she  said.  "You  do  mind 
now." 

And  suddenly  she  felt  very  tender  over  him,  as  she 
might  have  felt  over  a  child.  In  his  face  she  could  not 
see  the  boy  to-day,  but  his  words  set  the  boy,  the  in- 
most nature  of  the  boy  that  he  still  surely  was,  before 
her. 

*3  347 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

The  sense  of  humor  in  her  seemed  to  be  laughing  and 
wiping  away  a  tear  at  the  same  time. 

She  moved  her  chair  close  to  his. 

"Maurice,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  know  that  sometimes 
you  make  me  feel  horribly  old  and  motherly?" 

"Do  I?"  he  said. 

"You  do  to-day,  and  yet — do  you  know  that  I  have 
been  thinking  since  I  came  back  that  you  are  looking 
older,  much  older  than  when  I  went  away?" 

"Is  that  Artois?"  he  said,  looking  over  the  wall  to 
the  mountain-side  beyond  the  ravine. 

Hermione  got  up,  leaned  upon  the  wall,  and  followed 
his  eyes. 

"I  think  it  must  be.  I  told  Gaspare  to  go  to  the 
hotel  when  he  fetched  the  provisions  in  Marechiaro  and 
tell  Emile  it  would  be  best  to  come  up  in  the  cool. 
Yes,  it  is  he,  and  Gaspare  is  with  him!  Maurice,  you 
don't  mind  so  very  much?" 

She  put  her  arm  through  his. 

"These  people  can't  talk  when  they  see  how  ill  he 
looks.  And  if  they  do — oh,  Maurice,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? Surely  there's  only  one  thing  in  the  world  that 
matters,  and  that  is  whether  one  can  look  one's  own 
conscience  in  the  face  and  say,  'I've  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of!'" 

Maurice  longed  to  get  away  from  the  touch  of  her  arm. 
He  remembered  the  fragment  of  paper  he  had  seen 
among  the  stones  on  the  mountain-side.  He  must  go 
up  there  alone  directly  he  had  a  moment  of  freedom. 
But  now — Artois!  He  stared  at  the  distant  donkeys. 
His  brain  felt  dry  and  shrivelled,  his  body  both  fever- 
ish and  tired.  How  could  he  support  this  long  day's 
necessities?  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  not  the 
strength  and  resolution  to  endure  them.  And  Artois  was 
so  brilliant!  Maurice  thought  of  him  at  that  moment 
as  a  sort  of  monster  of  intellectuality,  terrifying  and  re- 
pellent. 

348 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  Hermione  said. 

"I  dare  say,"  he  answered.  "But  I  dare  say,  I  sup- 
pose— very  few  of  us  can  do  that.  We  can't  expect  to 
be  perfect,  and  other  people  oughtn't  to  expect  it  of  us." 

His  voice  had  changed.  Before,  it  had  been  almost 
an  accusing  voice  and  insincere.  Now  it  was  surely  a 
voice  that  pleaded,  and  it  was  absolutely  sincere.  Her- 
mione remembered  how  in  London  long  ago  the  humil- 
ity of  Maurice  had  touched  her.  He  had  stood  out  from 
the  mass  of  conceited  men  because  of  his  beauty  and  his 
simple  readiness  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  others.  And  surely 
the  simplicity,  the  humility,  still  persisted  beautifully 
in  him. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  ever  expect  anything  of  you 
that  you  wouldn't  give  me,"  she  said  to  him.  "Any- 
thing of  loyalty,  of  straightness,  or  of  manhood.  Often 
you  seem  to  me  a  boy,  and  yet,  I  know,  if  a  danger 
came  to  me,  or  a  trouble,  I  could  lean  on  you  and  you 
would  never  fail  me.  That's  what  a  woman  loves  to 
feel  when  she  has  given  herself  to  a  man,  that  he  knows 
how  to  take  care  of  her,  and  that  he  cares  to  take  care 
of  her." 

Her  body  was  touching  his.  He  felt  himself  stiffen. 
The  mental  pain  he  suffered  under  the  lash  of  her  words 
affected  his  body,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  necessity 
to  hide  all  that  was  in  his  mind  caused  his  body  to  long 
for  isolation,  to  shrink  from  any  contact  with  another. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  trying  to  make  his  voice  natural 
and  simple — "I  hope  you'll  never  be  in  trouble  or  in 
danger,  Hermione." 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  mind  very  much  if  you  were 
there,  if  I  could  just  touch  your  hand." 

"Here  they  come!"  he  said.  "I  hope  Artois  isn't 
very  tired  with  the  ride.  We  ought  to  have  had  Se- 
bastiano  here  to  play  the  "  Pastorale  "  for  him." 

"Ah!  Sebastiano!"  said  Hermione.  "He's  playing 
it  for  some  one  else  in  the  Lipari  Islands.  Poor  Lu- 
349 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

crezia !  Maurice,  I  love  Sicily  and  all  things  Sicilian.  You 
know  how  much!  But — but  I'm  glad  you've  got  some 
drops  of  English  blood  in  your  veins.  I'm  glad  you 
aren't  all  Sicilian." 

"Come,"  he  said.     "Let  us  go  to  the  arch  and  meet 
him." 


XIX 

"So  this  is  your  Garden  of  Paradise?"  Artois  said. 

He  got  off  his  donkey  slowly  at  the  archway,  and 
stood  for  a  moment,  after  shaking  them  both  by  the 
hand,  looking  at  the  narrow  terrace,  bathed  in  sun- 
shine despite  the  shelter  of  the  awning,  at  the  columns, 
at  the  towering  rocks  which  dominated  the  grove  of 
oak-trees,  and  at  the  low,  white-walled  cottage. 

"The  garden  from  which  you  came  to  save  my  life," 
he  added. 

He  turned  to  Maurice. 

"I  am  grateful  and  I  am  ashamed,"  he  said.  "I  was 
not  your  friend,  monsieur,  but  you  have  treated  me 
with  more  than  friendship.  I  thank  you  in  words  now, 
but  my  hope  is  that  some  day  I  shall  be  given  the  op- 
portunity to  thank  you  with  an  act." 

He  held  out  his  hand  again  to  Maurice.  There  had  been 
a  certain  formality  in  his  speech,  but  there  was  a  warmth 
in  his  manner  that  was  not  formal.  As  Maurice  held  his 
hand  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  each  took  swift 
note  of  the  change  in  the  other. 

Artois's  appearance  was  softened  by  his  illness.  In 
health  he  looked  authoritative,  leonine,  very  sure  of  him- 
self, piercingly  observant,  sometimes  melancholy,  but 
not  anxious.  His  manner,  never  blustering  or  offensive, 
was  usually  dominating,  the  manner  of  one  who  had 
the  right  to  rule  in  the  things  of  the  intellect.  Now  he 
seemed  much  gentler,  less  intellectual,  more  emotional. 
One  received,  at  a  first  meeting  with  him,  the  sensation 
rather  of  coming  into  contact  with  a  man  of  heart  than 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

with  a  man  of  brains.  Maurice  felt  the  change  at  once, 
and  was  surprised  by  it.  Outwardly  the  novelist  was 
greatly  altered.  His  tall  frame  was  shrunken  and 
slightly  bent.  The  face  was  pale  and  drawn,  the  eyes 
were  sunken,  the  large-boned  body  was  frightfully  thin 
and  looked  uncertain  when  it  moved.  As  Maurice  gazed 
he  realized  that  this  man  had  been  to  the  door  of  death, 
almost  over  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

And  Artois  ?  He  saw  a  change  in  the  Mercury  whom 
he  had  last  seen  at  the  door  of  the  London  restaurant, 
a  change  that  startled  him. 

"Come  into  our  Garden  of  Paradise  and  rest,"  said 
Hermione.  "Lean  on  my  arm,  Emile." 

"May  I  ?"  Artois  asked  of  Maurice,  with  a  faint  smile 
that  was  almost  pathetic. 

"Please  do.     You  must  be  tired!" 

Hermione  and  Artois  walked  slowly  forward  to  the 
terrace,  arm  linked  in  arm.  Maurice  was  about  to  fol- 
low them  when  he  felt  a  hand  catch  hold  of  him,  a  hand 
that  was  hot  and  imperative. 

"Gaspare!     What  is  it?" 

"Signorino,  signorino,  I  must  speak  to  you!" 

Startled,  Maurice  looked  into  the  boy's  flushed  face. 
The  great  eyes  searched  him  fiercely. 

"Put  the  donkeys  in  the  stable,"  Maurice  said.  "I'll 
come." 

"Come  behind  the  house,  signorino.     Ah,  Madonna!" 

The  last  exclamation  was  breathed  out  with  an  in- 
tensity that  was  like  the  intensity  of  despair.  The 
boy's  look  and  manner  were  tragic. 

"Gaspare,"  Maurice  said,  "what — ?" 

He  saw  Hermione  turning  towards  him. 

"I'll  come  in  a  minute,  Gaspare." 

"Madonna!"  repeated  the  boy.     "Madonna!" 

He  held  up  his  hands  and  let  them  drop  to  his  sides. 
Then  he  muttered  something — a  long  sentence — in  dia- 
lect.    His  voice  sounded  like  a  miserable  old  man's. 
352 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Ah— ah!" 

He  called  to  the  donkeys  and  drove  them  forward  to 
the  out-house.  Maurice  followed. 

What  had  happened  ?  Gaspare  had  the  manner,  the 
look,  of  one  confronted  by  a  terror  from  which  there  was 
no  escape.  His  eyes  had  surely  at  the  same  time  re- 
buked and  furiously  pitied  his  master.  What  did  they 
mean  ? 

"This  is  our  Garden  of  Paradise!"  Hermione  was  say- 
ing as  Maurice  came  up  to  her  and  Artois.  "Do  you 
wonder  that  we  love  it?" 

"I  wonder  that  you  left  it,"  Artois  replied. 

He  was  sunk  in  a  deep  straw  chair,  a  chaise  longue 
piled  up  with  cushions,  facing  the  great  and  radiant 
view.  After  he  had  spoken  he  sighed. 

"I  don't  think,"  he  said,  "that  either  of  you  really 
know  that  this  is  Eden.  That  knowledge  has  been  re- 
served for  the  interloper,  for  me." 

Hermione  sat  down  close  to  him.  Maurice  was  stand- 
ing by  the  wall,  listening  furtively  to  the  noises  from  the 
out-house,  where  Gaspare  was  unsaddling  the  donkeys. 
Artois  glanced  at  him,  and  was  more  sharply  conscious 
of  change  in  him.  To  Artois  this  place,  after  the  long 
journey,  which  had  sorely  tried  his  feeble  body,  seemed 
an  enchanted  place  of  peace,  a  veritable  Elysian  Field 
in  which  the  saddest,  the  most  driven  man  must  surely 
forget  his  pain  and  learn  how  to  rest  and  to  be  joyful 
in  repose.  But  he  felt  that  his  host,  the  man  who  had 
been  living  in  paradise,  who  ought  surely  to  have  been 
learning  its  blessed  lessons  through  sunlit  days  and 
starry  nights,  was  restless  like  a  man  in  a  city,  was  anx- 
ious, was  intensely  ill  at  ease.  Once,  watching  this 
man,  Artois  had  thought  of  the  messenger,  poised  on 
winged  feet,  radiantly  ready  for  movement  that  would 
be  exquisite  because  it  would  be  obedient.  This  man 
still  looked  ready  for  flight,  but  for  a  flight  how  differ- 
ent! As  Artois  was  thinking  this  Maurice  moved. 
353 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Excuse  me  just  for  an  instant!"  he  said.  "I  want 
to  speak  to  Gaspare." 

He  saw  now  that  Gaspare  was  taking  into  the  cottage 
the  provisions  that  had  been  carried  up  by  the  donkey 
from  Marechiaro. 

"  I — I  told  him  to  do  something  for  me  in  the  village," 
he  added,  "and  I  want  just  to  know — " 

He  looked  at  them,  almost  defiantly,  as  if  he  chal- 
lenged them  not  to  believe  what  he  had  said.  Then, 
without  finishing  his  sentence,  he  went  quickly  into  the 
cottage. 

"You  have  chosen  your  garden  well,"  Artois  said  to 
Hermione  directly  they  were  alone.  "No  other  sea  has 
ever  given  to  me  such  an  impression  of  tenderness  and 
magical  space  as  this;  no  other  sea  has  surely  ever  had 
a  horizon-line  so  distant  from  those  who  look  as  this." 

He  went  on  talking  about  the  beauty,  leading  her  with 
him.  He  feared  lest  she  might  begin  to  speak  about 
her  husband. 

Meanwhile,  Maurice  had  reached  the  mountain-side  be- 
hind the  house  and  was  waiting  there  for  Gaspare.  He 
heard  the  boy's  voice  in  the  kitchen  speaking  to  Lu- 
crezia,  angrily  it  seemed  by  the  sound.  Then  the  voice 
ceased  and  Gaspare  appeared  for  an  instant  at  the 
kitchen  door,  making  violent  motions  with  his  arms 
towards  the  mountain.  He  disappeared.  What  did  he 
want  ?  What  did  he  mean  ?  The  gestures  had  been  im- 
perative. Maurice  looked  round.  A  little  way  up  the 
mountain  there  was  a  large,  closed  building,  like  a  barn, 
built  of  stones.  It  belonged  to  a  contadino,  but  Maurice 
had  never  seen  it  open,  or  seen  any  one  going  to  or  com- 
ing from  it.  As  he  stared  at  it  an  idea  occurred  to  him. 
Perhaps  Gaspare  meant  him  to  go  and  wait  there,  be- 
hind the  barn,  so  that  Lucrezia  should  not  see  or  hear 
their  colloquy.  He  resolved  to  do  this,  and  went  swift- 
ly up  the  hill-side.  When  he  was  in  the  shadow  of  the 
building  he  waited.  He  did  not  know  what  was  the 
354 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

matter,  what  Gaspare  wanted,  but  he  realized  that  some- 
thing had  occurred  which  had  stirred  the  boy  to  the 
depths.  This  something  must  have  occurred  while  he 
was  at  Marechiaro.  Before  he  had  time  mentally  to 
make  a  list  of  possible  events  in  Marechiaro,  Maurice 
heard  light  feet  running  swiftly  up  the  mountain,  and 
Gaspare  came  round  the  corner,  still  with  the  look  of 
tragedy,  a  wild,  almost  terrible  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Signorino,"  he  began  at  once,  in  a  low  voice  that 
was  full  of  the  pressure  of  an  intense  excitement.  "  Tell 
me!  Where  were  you  last  night  when  we  were  making 
the  fireworks  go  off?" 

Maurice  felt  the  blood  mount  to  his  face. 

"Close  to  where  you  left  me,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  signore!     Oh,  signore!" 

It  was  almost  a  cry.  The  sweat  was  pouring  down 
the  boy's  face. 

"Ma  non  e  mia  colpa!  Non  e  mia  colpa!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  has  happened,  Gas- 
pare?" 

"I  have  seen  Salvatore." 

His  voice  was  more  quiet  now.  He  fixed  his  eyes 
almost  sternly  on  his  padrone,  as  if  in  the  effort  to  read 
his  very  soul. 

"Well?     Well,  Gaspare?" 

Maurice  was  almost  stammering  now.  He  guessed — 
he  knew  what  was  coming. 

"Salvatore  came  up  to  me  just  before  I  got  to  the 
village.  I  heard  him  calling,  'Stop!'  I  stood  still. 
We  were  on  the  path  not  far  from  the  fountain.  There 
was  a  broken  branch  on  the  ground,  a  branch  of  olive. 
Salvatore  said:  'Suppose  that  is  your  padrone,  that 
branch  there!'  and  he  spat  on  it.  He  spat  on  it,  signore, 
he  spat— and  he  spat." 

Maurice  knew  now. 

"Go  on!"  he  said. 

355 


THE   CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

And  this  time  there  was  no  uncertainty  in  his  voice. 
Gaspare  was  breathing  hard.  His  breast  rose  and 
fell. 

"I  was  going  to  strike  him  in  the  face,  but  he  caught 
my  hand,  and  then — •  Signorino,  signorino,  what  have 
you  done?" 

His  voice  rose.  He  began  to  look  uncontrolled,  dis- 
tracted, wild,  as  if  he  might  do  some  frantic  thing. 

' '  Gaspare !     Gaspare ! ' ' 

Maurice  had  him  by  the  arms. 

"Why  did  you?"  panted  the  boy.     "Why  did  you?" 

"Then  Salvatore  knows?" 

Maurice  saw  that  any  denial  was  useless. 

"He  knows!     He  knows!" 

If  Maurice  had  not  held  Gaspare  tightly  the  boy  would 
have  flung  himself  down  headlong  on  the  ground,  to 
burst  into  one  of  those  storms  of  weeping  which  swept 
upon  him  when  he  was  fiercely  wrought  up.  But  Mau- 
rice would  not  let  him  have  this  relief. 

"Gaspare!  Listen  to  me!  What  is  he  going  to  do? 
What  is  Salvatore  going  to  do?" 

"Santa  Madonna!     Santa  Madonna!" 

The  boy  rocked  himself  to  and  fro.  He  began  to  in- 
voke the  Madonna  and  the  saints.  He  was  beside  him- 
self, was  almost  like  one  mad. 

"Gaspare — in  the  name  of  God — !" 

"H'sh!" 

Suddenly  the  boy  kept  still.  His  face  changed, 
hardened.  His  body  became  tense.  With  his  hand 
still  held  up  in  a  warning  gesture,  he  crept  to  the  edge 
of  the  barn  and  looked  round  it. 

"What  is  it?"  Maurice  whispered. 

Gaspare  stole  back. 

"It  is  only  Lucrezia.  She  is  spreading  the  linen.  I 
thought — " 

"What  is  Salvatore  going  to  do?" 

"  Unless  you  go  down  to  the  sea  to  meet  him  this  even- 
356 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

ing,  signorino,  he  is  coming  up  here  to-night  to  tell  every- 
thing to  the  signora." 

Maurice  went  white. 

"I  shall  go,"  he  said.     "I  shall  go  down  to  the  sea." 

' '  Madonna !     Madonna ! ' ' 

"He  won't  come  now?  He  won't  come  this  morn- 
ing?" 

Maurice  spoke  almost  breathlessly,  with  his  hands  on 
the  boy's  hands  which  streamed  with  sweat.  Gaspare 
shook  his  head. 

"I  told  him  if  he  came  up  I  would  meet  him  in  the 
path  and  kill  him." 

The  boy  had  out  a  knife. 

Maurice  put  his  arm  round  Gaspare's  shoulder.  At 
that  moment  he  really  loved  the  boy. 

"Will  he  come?" 

"  Only  if  you  do  not  go." 

"I  shall  go." 

"  I  will  come  with  you,  signorino." 

"No.     I  must  go  alone." 

"I  will  come  with  you!" 

A  dogged  obstinacy  hardened  his  whole  face,  made 
even  his  shining  eyes  look  cold,  like  stones. 

"Gaspare,  you  are  to  stay  with  the  signora.  I  may 
miss  Salvatore  going  down.  While  I  am  gone  he  may 
come  up  here.  The  signora  is  not  to  speak  with  him. 
He  is  not  to  come  to  her." 

Gaspare  hesitated.  He  was  torn  in  two  by  his  dual 
affection,  his  dual  sense  of  the  watchful  fidelity  he  owed 
to  his  padrone  and  to  his  padrona. 

"  Va  bene,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  half  whisper. 

He  hung  down  his  head  like  one  exhausted. 

"How  will  it  finish?"  he  murmured,  as  if  to  himself. 
"How  will  it  finish?" 

"I  must  go,"  Maurice  said.  "I  must  go  now.  Gas- 
pare!" 

"Si,  signore?" 

357 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"We  must  be  careful,  you  and  I,  to-day.  We  must 
not  let  the  signora,  Lucrezia,  any  one  suspect  that — that 
we  are  not  just  as  usual.  Do  you  see  ?" 

"Si,  signore." 

The  boy  nodded.     His  eyes  now  looked  tired. 

"And  try  to  keep  a  lookout,  when  you  can,  without 
drawing  the  attention  of  the  signora.  Salvatore  might 
change  his  mind  and  come  up.  The  signora  is  not  to 
know.  She  is  never  to  know.  Do  you  think" — he 
hesitated — "do  you  think  Salvatore  has  told  any  one?" 

"Non  lo  so." 

The  boy  was  silent.  Then  he  lifted  his  hands  again 
and  said: 

' '  Signorino !     Signorino ! ' ' 

And  Maurice  seemed  to  hear  at  that  moment  the  voice 
of  an  accusing  angel. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  "I  was  mad.  We  men — we  are 
mad  sometimes.  But  now  I  must  be  sane.  I  must  do 
what  I  can  to — I  must  do  what  I  can — and  you  must 
help  me." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Gaspare  took  it.  The  grasp 
of  it  was  strong,  that  of  a  man.  It  seemed  to  reassure 
the  boy. 

"I  will  always  help  my  padrone,"  he  said. 

Then  they  went  down  the  mountain-side. 

It  was  perhaps  very  strange — Maurice  thought  it  was — 
but  he  felt  now  less  tired,  less  confused,  more  master  of 
himself  than  he  had  before  he  had  spoken  with  Gaspare. 
He  even  felt  less  miserable.  Face  to  face  with  an  im- 
mediate and  very  threatening  danger,  courage  leaped  up 
in  him,  a  certain  violence  of  resolve  which  cleared  away 
clouds  and  braced  his  whole  being.  He  had  to  fight. 
There  was  no  way  out.  Well,  then,  he  would  fight. 
He  had  played  the  villain,  perhaps,  but  he  would  not 
play  the  poltroon.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  going 
to  do,  what  he  could  do,  but  he  must  act,  and  act  de- 
cisively. His  wild  youth  responded  to  this  call  made 
358 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

upon  it.  There  was  a  new  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  went 
down  to  the  cottage,  as  he  came  upon  the  terrace. 

Artois  noticed  it  at  once,  was  aware  at  once  that  in 
this  marvellous  peace  to  which  Hermione  had  brought 
him  there  were  elements  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
peace. 

"What  hast  thou  to  do  with  peace?  Turn  thee  be- 
hind me." 

These  words  from  the  Bible  came  into  his  mind  as  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  his  host,  and  he  felt  that  Her- 
mione and  he  were  surely  near  to  some  drama  of  which 
they  knew  nothing,  of  which  Hermione,  perhaps,  sus- 
pected nothing. 

Maurice  acted  his  part.  The  tonic  of  near  danger  gave 
him  strength,  even  gave  him  at  first  a  certain  subtlety. 
From  the  terrace  he  could  see  far  over  the  mountain 
flanks.  As  one  on  a  tower  he  watched  for  the  approach 
of  his  enemy  from  the  sea,  but  he  did  not  neglect  his 
two  companions.  For  he  was  fighting  already.  When 
he  seemed  natural  in  his  cordiality  to  his  guest,  when 
he  spoke  and  laughed,  when  he  apologized  for  the  mis- 
fortune of  the  previous  day,  he  was  fighting.  The  bat- 
tle with  circumstances  was  joined.  He  must  bear  him- 
self bravely  in  it.  He  must  not  allow  himself  to  be 
overwhelmed. 

Nevertheless,  there  came  presently  a  moment  which 
brought  with  it  a  sense  of  fear. 

Hermione  got  up  to  go  into  the  house. 

"  I  must  see  what  Lucrezia  is  doing,"  she  said.  "Your 
collazione  must  not  be  a  fiasco,  Emile." 

"Nothing  could  be  a  fiasco  here,  I  think,"  he  an- 
swered. 

She  laughed  happily. 

"But  poor  Lucrezia  is  not  in  paradise,"  she  said. 
"Ah,  why  can't  every  one  be  happy  when  one  is  happy 
one's  self?  I  always  think  of  that  when  I — " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence  in  words.  Her  look 
359 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

at  the  two  men  concluded  it.  Then  she  turned  and 
went  into  the  house. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Lucrezia?"  asked  Artois. 

"Oh,  she — she's  in  love  with  a  shepherd  called  Se- 
bastiano." 

"And  he's  treating  her  badly?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  He  went  to  the  Lipari  Isles,  and  he 
doesn't  come  back." 

"A  girl  there  keeps  him  captive?" 

"It  seems  so." 

"Faithful  women  must  not  expect  to  have  a  perfect 
time  in  Sicily,"  Artois  said. 

As  he  spoke  he  noticed  that  a  change  came  in  his 
companion's  face.  It  was  fleeting,  but  it  was  marked. 
It  made  Artois  think: 

"This  man  understands  Sicilian  faithlessness  in  love." 

It  made  him,  too,  remember  sharply  some  words  of 
his  own  said  long  ago  in  London: 

"I  love  the  South,  but  I  distrust  what  I  love,  and  I 
see  the  South  in  him." 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  two  men.  Heat  was 
growing  in  the  long  summer  day,  heat  that  lapped  them 
in  the  influence  of  the  South.  Africa  had  been  hotter, 
but  this  seemed  the  breast  of  the  South,  full  of  glory 
and  of  languor,  and  of  that  strange  and  subtle  influence 
which  inclines  the  heart  of  man  to  passion  and  the  body 
of  man  to  yield  to  its  desires.  It  was  glorious,  this 
wonderful  magic  of  the  South,  but  was  it  wholesome  for 
Northern  men  ?  Was  it  not  full  of  danger  ?  As  he  look- 
ed at  the  great,  shining  waste  of  the  sea,  purple  and  gold, 
dark  and  intense  and  jewelled,  at  the  outline  of  Etna, 
at  the  barbaric  ruin  of  the  Saracenic  castle  on  the  cliff 
opposite,  like  a  cry  from  the  dead  ages  echoing  out  of 
the  quivering  blue,  at  the  man  before  him  leaning  against 
the  blinding  white  wall  above  the  steep  bank  of  the 
ravine,  Artois  said  to  himself  that  the  South  was  dan- 
gerous to  young,  full-blooded  men,  was  dangerous  to 
360 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

such  a  man  as  Delarey.  And  he  asked  himself  the 
question,  "What  has  this  man  been  doing  here  in  this 
glorious  loneliness  of  the  South,  while  his  wife  has  been 
saving  my  life  in  Africa  ?"  And  a  sense  of  reproach,  al- 
most of  alarm,  smote  him.  For  he  had  called  Hermione 
away.  In  the  terrible  solitude  that  comes  near  to  the 
soul  with  the  footfalls  of  death  he  had  not  been  strong 
enough  to  be  silent.  He  had  cried  out,  and  his  friend 
had  heard  and  had  answered.  And  Delarey  had  been 
left  alone  with  the  sun. 

"I'm  afraid  you  must  feel  as  if  I  were  your  enemy," 
he  said. 

And  as  he  spoke  he  was  thinking,  "  Have  I  been  this 
man's  enemy?" 

"Oh  no.     Why?" 

"I  deprived  you  of  your  wife.  You've  been  all  alone 
here." 

"I  made  friends  of  the  Sicilians." 

Maurice  spoke  lightly,  but  through  his  mind  ran  the 
thought,  "What  an  enemy  this  man  has  been  to  me, 
without  knowing  it!" 

"They  are  easy  to  get  on  with,"  said  Artois.  "When 
I  was  in  Sicily  I  learned  to  love  them." 

"Oh,  love!"  said  Maurice,  hastily. 

He  checked  himself. 

"  That's  rather  a  strong  word,  but  I  like  them.  They're 
a  delightful  race." 

"Have  you  found  out  their  faults?" 

Both  men  were  trying  to  hide  themselves  in  their 
words. 

"What  are  their  faults,  do  you  think?"  Maurice  said. 

He  looked  over  the  wall  and  saw,  far  off  on  the  path 
by  the  ravine,  a  black  speck  moving. 

"Treachery  when  they  do  not  trust;  sensuality,  vio- 
lence, if  they  think  themselves  wronged." 

"Are— are  those  faults?  I  understand  them.  They 
seem  almost  to  belong  to  the  sun." 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Artois  had  not  been  looking  at  Maurice.  The  sound  of 
Maurice's  voice  now  made  him  aware  that  the  speaker 
had  turned  away  from  him.  He  glanced  up  and  saw  his 
companion  staring  over  the  wall  across  the  ravine.  What 
was  he  gazing  at  ?  Artois  wondered. 

"Yes,  the  sun  is  perhaps  partly  responsible  for  them. 
Then  you  have  become  such  a  sun -worshipper  that — " 

"No,  no,  I  don't  say  that,"  Maurice  interrupted. 

He  looked  round  and  met  Artois 's  observant  eyes. 
He  had  dreaded  having  those  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

"But  I  think — I  think  things  done  in  such  a  place, 
such  an  island  as  this,  shouldn't  be  judged  too  severely, 
shouldn't  be  judged,  I  mean,  quite  as  we  might  judge 
them,  say,  in  England." 

He  looked  embarrassed  as  he  ended,  and  shifted  his 
gaze  from  his  companion. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  Artois  said. 

Maurice  looked  at  him  again,  almost  eagerly.  An  odd 
feeling  came  to  him  that  this  man,  who  unwittingly  had 
done  him  a  deadly  harm,  would  be  able  to  understand 
what  perhaps  no  woman  could  ever  understand,  the 
tyranny  of  the  senses  in  a  man,  their  fierce  tyranny  in 
the  sunlit  lands.  Had  he  been  so  wicked?  Would 
Artois  think  so  ?  And  the  punishment  that  was  perhaps 
coming — did  he  deserve  that  it  should  be  terrible  ?  He 
wondered,  almost  like  a  boy.  But  Hermione  was  not 
with  them.  When  she  was  there  he  did  not  wonder. 
He  felt  that  he  deserved  lashes  unnumbered. 

And  Artois — he  began  to  feel  almost  clairvoyant.  The 
new  softness  that  had  come  to  him  with  the  pain  of  the 
body,  that  had  been  developed  by  the  blessed  rest  from 
pain  that  was  convalescence,  had  not  stricken  his  faculty 
of  seeing  clear  in  others,  but  it  had  changed,  at  any  rate 
for  a  time,  the  sentiments  that  followed  upon  the  ex- 
ercise of  that  faculty.  Scorn  and  contempt  were  less 
near  to  him  than  they  had  been.  Pity  was  nearer.  He 
felt  now  almost  sure  that  Delarey  had  fallen  into  some 
362 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

trouble  while  Hermione  was  in  Africa,  that  he  was  op- 
pressed at  this  moment  by  some  great  uneasiness  or 
even  fear,  that  he  was  secretly  cursing  some  imprudence, 
and  that  his  last  words  were  a  sort  of  surreptitious  plea 
for  forgiveness,  thrown  out  to  the  Powers  of  the  air,  to 
the  Spirits  of  the  void,  to  whatever  shadowy  presences 
are  about  the  guilty  man  ready  to  condemn  his  sin. 
He  felt,  too,  that  he  owed  much  to  Delarey.  In  a 
sense  it  might  be  said  that  he  owed  to  him  his  life. 
For  Delarey  had  allowed  Hermione  to  come  to  Africa, 
and  if  Hermione  had  not  come  the  end  for  him,  Artois, 
might  well  have  been  death. 

"I  should  like  to  say  something  to  you,  monsieur," 
he  said.  "It  is  rather  difficult  to  say,  because  I  do  not 
wish  it  to  seem  formal,  when  the  feeling  that  prompts 
it  is  not  formal." 

Maurice  was  again  looking  over  the  wall,  watching  with 
intensity  the  black  speck  that  was  slowly  approaching 
on  the  little  path. 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"  I  owe  you  a  debt  —  indeed  I  do.  You  must  not 
deny  it.  Through  your  magnanimous  action  in  per- 
mitting your  wife  to  leave  you,  you,  perhaps  indirectly, 
saved  my  life.  For,  without  her  aid,  I  do  not  think  I 
could  have  recovered.  Of  her  nobility  and  devotion 
I  will  not,  because  I  cannot  adequately,  speak.  But  I 
wish  to  say  to  you  that  if  ever  I  can  do  you  a  service 
of  any  kind  I  will  do  it." 

As  he  finished  Maurice,  who  was  looking  at  him  now, 
saw  a  veil  over  his  big  eyes.  Could  it — could  it  possibly 
be  a  veil  of  tears! 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered. 

He  tried  to  speak  warmly,  cordially.  But  his  heart 
said  to  him:  "You  can  do  nothing  for  me  now.  It  is 
all  too  late!" 

Yet  the  words  and  the  emotion  of  Artois  were  some 
slight  relief  to  him.  He  was  able  to  feel  that  in  this 

•4  363 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

man  he  had  no  secret  enemy,  but,  if  need  be,  a 
friend. 

"You  have  a  nice  fellow  as  servant,"  Artois  said,  to 
change  the  conversation. 

"Gaspare  —  yes.  He's  loyal.  I  intend  to  ask  Her- 
mione  to  let  me  take  him  to  England  with  us." 

He  paused,  then  added,  with  an  anxious  curiosity: 

"  Did  you  talk  to  him  much  as  you  came  up  ?" 

He  wondered  whether  the  novelist  had  noticed  Gas- 
pare's agitation  or  whether  the  boy  had  been  subtle 
enough  to  conceal  it. 

"Not  very  much.  The  path  is  narrow,  and  I  rode 
in  front.  He  sang  most  of  the  time,  those  melancholy 
songs  of  Sicily  that  came  surely  long  ago  across  the  sea 
from  Africa." 

"They  nearly  always  sing  on  the  mountains  when 
they  are  with  the  donkeys." 

"Dirges  of  the  sun.  There  is  a  sadness  of  the  sun 
as  well  as  a  joy." 

"Yes." 

As  Maurice  answered,  he  thought,  "  How  well  I  know 
that  now!"  And  as  he  looked  at  the  black  figure  draw- 
ing nearer  in  the  sunshine  it  seemed  to  him  that  there 
was  a  terror  in  that  gold  which  he  had  often  worshipped. 
If  that  figure  should  be  Salvatore!  He  strained  his 
eyes.  At  one  moment  he  fancied  that  he  recognized 
the  wild,  free,  rather  strutting  walk  of  the  fisherman. 
At  another  he  believed  that  his  fear  had  played  him  a 
trick,  that  the  movements  of  the  figure  were  those  of 
an  old  man,  some  plodding  contadino  of  the  hills. 
Artois  wondered  increasingly  what  he  was  looking  at. 
A  silence  fell  between  them.  Artois  lay  back  in  the 
chaise  longue  and  gazed  up  at  the  blue,  then  at  the  sec- 
tion of  distant  sea  which  was  visible  above  the  rim  of 
the  wall  though  the  intervening  mountain  land  was 
hidden.  It  was  a  paradise  up  here.  And  to  have  it 
with  the  great  love  of  a  woman,  what  an  experience  that 
364 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

must  be  for  any  man!  It  seemed  to  him  strange  that 
such  an  experience  had  been  the  gift  of  the  gods  to 
their  messenger,  their  Mercury.  What  had  it  meant  to 
him  ?  What  did  it  mean  to  him  now  ?  Something  had 
changed  him.  Was  it  that?  In  the  man  by  the  wall 
Artois  did  not  see  any  longer  the  bright  youth  he  re- 
membered. Yet  the  youth  was  still  there,  the  supple 
grace,  the  beauty,  bronzed  now  by  the  long  heats  of 
the  sun.  It  was  the  expression  that  had  changed.  In 
cities  one  sees  anxious-looking  men  everywhere.  In 
London  Delarey  had  stood  out  from  the  crowd  not  only 
because  of  his  beauty  of  the  South,  but  because  of  his 
light-hearted  expression,  the  spirit  of  youth  in  his  eyes. 
And  now  here,  in  this  reality  that  seemed  almost  like  a 
dream  in  its  perfection,  in  this  reality  of  the  South,  there 
was  a  look  of  strain  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  whole  body. 
The  man  had  contradicted  his  surroundings  in  London 
— now  he  contradicted  his  surroundings  here. 

While  Artois  was  thinking  this  Maurice's  expression 
suddenly  changed,  his  attitude  became  easier.  He  turned 
round  from  the  wall,  and  Artois  saw  that  the  keen  anx- 
iety had  gone  out  of  his  eyes.  Gaspare  was  below  with 
his  gun  pretending  to  look  for  birds,  and  had  made  a 
sign  that  the  approaching  figure  was  not  that  of  Salva- 
tore.  Maurice's  momentary  sense  of  relief  was  so  great 
that  it  threw  him  off  his  guard. 

"What  can  have  been  happening  beyond  the  wall?" 
Artois  thought. 

He  felt  as  if  a  drama  had  been  played  out  there  and 
the  denouement  had  been  happy. 

Hermione  came  back  at  this  moment. 

"Poor  Lucrezia!"  she  said.  "She's  plucky,  but  Se- 
bastiano  is  making  her  suffer  horribly." 

"Here!"  said  Artois,  almost  involuntarily. 

"It  does  seem  almost  impossible,  I  know." 

She  sat  down  again  near  him  and  smiled  at  her  hus- 
band. 

365 


THE   CALL  OF   THE   BLOOD 

"  You  are  coining  back  to  health,  Emile.  And  Maurice 
and  I — well,  we  are  in  our  garden.  It  seems  wrong,  ter- 
ribly wrong,  that  any  one  should  suffer  here.  But  Lu- 
crezia  loves  like  a  Sicilian.  What  violence  there  is  in 
these  people!" 

"England  must  not  judge  them." 

He  looked  at  Maurice. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Hermione.  "Something  you 
two  were  talking  about  when  I  was  in  the  kitchen?" 

Maurice  looked  uneasy. 

"I  was  only  saying  that  I  think  the  sun — the  South 
has  an  influence,"  he  said,  "and  that — " 

"An  influence!"  exclaimed  Hermione.  "Of  course  it 
has!  Emile,  you  would  have  seen  that  influence  at 
work  if  you  had  been  with  us  on  our  first  day  in  Sicily. 
Your  tarantella,  Maurice!" 

She  smiled  again  happily,  but  her  husband  did  not 
answer  her  smile. 

"What  was  that?"  said  Artois.  "You  never  told  me 
in  Africa." 

"The  boys  danced  a  tarantella  here  on  the  terrace  to 
welcome  us,  and  it  drove  Maurice  so  mad  that  he  sprang 
up  and  danced  too.  And  the  strange  thing  was  that  he 
danced  as  well  as  any  of  them.  His  blood  called  him, 
and  he  obeyed  the  call." 

She  looked  at  Artois  to  remind  him  of  his  words. 

"  It's  good  when  the  blood  calls  one  to  the  tarantella, 
isn't  it?"  she  asked  him.  "I  think  it's  the  most  wildly 
innocent  expression  of  extreme  joy  in  the  world.  And 
yet" — her  expressive  face  changed,  and  into  her  promi- 
nent brown  eyes  there  stole  a  half -whimsical,  half -ear- 
nest look — "  at  the  end — Maurice,  do  you  know  that  I  was 
almost  frightened  that  day  at  the  end?" 

"Frightened!     Why?"  he  said. 

He  got  up  from  the  terrace-seat  and  sat  down  in  a 
straw  chair. 

"Why  ?"  he  repeated,  crossing  one  leg  over  the 
366 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

other  and  laying  his  brown  hands  on  the  arms  of  the 
chair. 

"I  had  a  feeling  that  you  were  escaping  from  me  in 
the  tarantella.  Wasn't  it  absurd?" 

He  looked  slightly  puzzled.     She  turned  to  Artois. 

"Can  you  imagine  what  I  felt,  Emile?  He  danced 
so  well  that  I  seemed  to  see  before  me  a  pure-blooded 
Sicilian.  It  almost  frightened  me!" 

She  laughed. 

"But  I  soon  learned  to  delight  in — in  my  Sicilian," 
she  said,  tenderly. 

She  felt  so  happy,  so  at  ease,  and  she  was  so  com- 
pletely natural,  that  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  though 
she  was  with  her  husband  and  her  most  intimate  friend 
the  two  men  were  really  strangers  to  each  other. 

"You'll  find  that  I'm  quite  English,  when  we  are 
back  in  London,"  Maurice  said.  There  was  a  cold  sound 
of  determination  in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  lose  what  you  have 
gained  here,"  Hermione  protested,  half  laughingly,  half 
tenderly. 

"  Gained!"  Maurice  said,  still  in  the  prosaic  voice.  "  I 
don't  think  a  Sicilian  would  be  much  good  in  England. 
We — we  don't  want  romance  there.  We  want  cool- 
headed,  practical  men  who  can  work,  and  who've  no 
nonsense  about  them." 

"Maurice!"  she  said,  amazed.  "What  a  cold  douche! 
And  from  you!  Why,  what  has  happened  to  you  while 
I've  been  away?" 

"Happened  to  me?"  he  said,  quickly.  "Nothing. 
What  should  happen  to  me  here?" 

"  Do  you — are  you  beginning  to  long  for  England  and 
English  ways?" 

"I  think  it's  time  I  began  to  do  something,"  he  said, 
resolutely.  "I  think  I've  had  a  long  enough  holiday." 

He  was  trying  to  put  the  past  behind  him.  He  was 
trying  to  rush  into  the  new  life,  the  life  in  which  there 
367 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

would  be  no  more  wildness,  no  more  yielding  to  the  hot 
impulses  that  were  surely  showered  down  out  of  the  sun. 
Mentally  he  was  leaving  the  Enchanted  Island  already. 
It  was  fading  away,  sinking  into  its  purple  sea,  sinking 
out  of  his  sight  with  his  wild  heart  of  youth,  while  he, 
cold,  calm,  resolute  man,  was  facing  the  steady  life  be- 
fitting an  Englishman,  the  life  of  work,  of  social  duties, 
of  husband  and  father,  with  a  money-making  ambition 
and  a  stake  in  his  country. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  Hermione  said. 

But  there  was  a  sound  of  disappointment  in  her  voice. 
Till  now  Maurice  had  always  shared  her  Sicilian  enthusi- 
asms, had  even  run  before  them,  lighter-footed  than  she 
in  the  race  towards  the  sunshine.  It  was  difficult  to  ac- 
commodate herself  to  this  abrupt  change. 

"  But  don't  let  us  think  of  going  to-day,"  she  added. 
"Remember — I  have  only  just  come  back." 

"And  I!"  said  Artois.  "Be  merciful  to  an  invalid, 
Monsieur  Delarey!" 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  he  felt  fully  conscious  now  that 
his  suspicion  was  well  founded.  Maurice  was  uneasy,  un- 
happy. He  wanted  to  get  away  from  this  peace  that 
held  no  peace  for  him.  He  wanted  to  put  something 
behind  him.  To  a  man  like  Artois,  Maurice  was  a  boy. 
He  might  try  to  be  subtle,  he  might  even  be  subtle — for 
him.  But  to  this  acute  and  trained  observer  of  the 
human  comedy  he  could  not  for  long  be  deceptive. 

During  his  severe  illness  the  mind  of  Artois  had  often 
been  clouded,  had  been  dispossessed  of  its  throne  by 
the  clamor  of  the  body's  pain.  And  afterwards,  when 
the  agony  passed  and  the  fever  abated,  the  mind  had 
been  lulled,  charmed  into  a  stagnant  state  that  was 
delicious.  But  now  it  began  to  go  again  to  its  business. 
It  b^gan  to  work  with  the  old  rapidity  that  had  for  a 
time  been  lost.  And  as  this  power  came  back  and  was 
felt  thoroughly,  very  consciously  by  this  very  conscious 
man,  he  took  alarm.  What  affected  or  threatened  De- 
368 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

larey  must  affect,  threaten  Hermione.  Whether  he  were 
one  with  her  or  not  she  was  one  with  him.  The  feeling 
of  Artois  towards  the  woman  who  had  shown  him  such 
noble,  such  unusual  friendship  was  exquisitely  delicate 
and  intensely  strong.  Unmingled  with  any  bodily  pas- 
sion, it  was,  or  so  it  seemed  to  him,  the  more  delicate 
and  strong  on  that  account.  He  was  a  man  who  had  an 
instinctive  hatred  of  heroics.  His  taste  revolted  from 
them  as  it  revolted  from  violence  in  literature.  They 
seemed  to  him  a  coarseness,  a  crudity  of  the  soul,  and 
almost  inevitably  linked  with  secret  falseness.  But  he 
was  conscious  that  to  protect  from  sorrow  or  shame  the 
woman  who  had  protected  him  in  his  dark  hour  he  would 
be  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice.  There  would  be  no 
limit  to  what  he  would  be  ready  to  do  now,  in  this 
moment,  for  Hermione.  He  knew  that,  and  he  took 
the  alarm.  Till  now  he  had  been  feeling  curiosity  about 
the  change  in  Delarey.  Now  he  felt  the  touch  of  fear. 

Something  had  happened  to  change  Maurice  while  Her- 
mione had  been  in  Africa.  He  had  heard,  perhaps,  the 
call  of  the  blood.  All  that  he  had  said,  and  all  that  he 
had  felt,  on  the  night  when  he  had  met  Maurice  for  the 
first  time  in  London,  came  back  to  Artois.  He  had 
prophesied,  vaguely  perhaps.  Had  his  prophecy  already 
been  fulfilled  ?  In  this  great  and  shining  peace  of  nature 
Maurice  was  not  at  peace.  And  now  all  sense  of  peace 
deserted  Artois.  Again,  and  fiercely  now,  he  felt  the 
danger  of  the  South,  and  he  added  to  his  light  words 
some  words  that  were  not  light. 

"  But  I  am  really  no  longer  an  invalid,"  he  said.  "  And 
I  must  be  getting  northward  very  soon.  I  need  the 
bracing  air,  the  Spartan  touch  of  the  cold  that  the 
Sybarite  in  me  dreads.  Perhaps  we  all  need  them." 

"If  you  go  on  like  this,  you  two,"  Hermione  exclaim- 
ed, "you  will  make  me  feel  as  if  it  were  degraded  to 
wish  to  live  anywhere  except  at  Clapham  Junction  or 
the  North  Pole.  Let  us  be  happy  as  we  are,  where  we 
369 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

are,  to-day  and — yes,  call  me  weak  if  you  like — and  to- 
morrow!" 

Maurice  made  no  answer  to  this  challenge,  but  Artois 
covered  his  silence,  and  kept  the  talk  going  on  safe 
topics  till  Gaspare  came  to  the  terrace  to  lay  the  cloth 
for  collazione. 

It  was  past  noon  now,  and  the  heat  was  brimming  up 
like  a  flood  over  the  land.  Flies  buzzed  about  the 
terrace,  buzzed  against  the  white  walls  and  ceilings  of 
the  cottage,  winding  their  tiny,  sultry  horns  ceaselessly, 
musicians  of  the  sun.  The  red  geraniums  in  the  stone 
pots  beneath  the  broken  columns  drooped  their  dry 
heads.  The  lizards  darted  and  stopped,  darted  and 
stopped  upon  the  wall  and  the  white  seats  where  the 
tiles  were  burning  to  the  touch.  There  was  no  moving 
figure  on  the  baked  mountains,  no  moving  vessel  on  the 
shining  sea.  No  smoke  came  from  the  snowless  lips  of 
Etna.  It  was  as  if  the  fires  of  the  sun  had  beaten  down 
and  slain  the  fires  of  the  earth. 

Gaspare  moved  to  and  fro  slowly,  spreading  the  cloth, 
arranging  the  pots  of  flowers,  the  glasses,  forks,  and 
knives  upon  it.  In  his  face  there  was  little  vivacity. 
But  now  and  then  his  great  eyes  searched  the  hot  world 
that  lay  beneath  them,  and  Artois  thought  he  saw  in 
them  the  watchfulness,  the  strained  anxiety  that  had 
been  in  Maurice's  eyes. 

"Some  one  must  be  coming,"  he  thought.  "Or  they 
must  be  expecting  some  one  to  come,  these  two." 

"  Do  you  ever  have  visitors  here  ?"  he  asked,  carelessly. 

"Visitors!  Emile,  why  are  we  here?  Do  you  an- 
ticipate a  knock  and  'If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mrs.  and 
the  Misses  Watson '  ?  Good  Heavens — visitors  on  Monte 
Amato!" 

He  smiled,  but  he  persisted. 

"Never  a  contadino,  or  a  shepherd,  or" — he  looked 
down  at  the  sea — "or  a  fisherman  with  his  basket  of 
sarde?" 

37o 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Maurice  moved  in  his  chair,  and  Gaspare,  hearing  a 
word  he  knew,  looked  hard  at  the  speaker. 

"Oh,  we  sometimes  have  the  people  of  the  hills  to  see 
us,"  said  Hermione.  " But  we  don't  call  them  'visitors.' 
As  to  fishermen — here  they  are!" 

She  pointed  to  her  husband  and  Gaspare. 

"But  they  eat  all  the  fish  they  catch,  and  we  never 
see  the  fin  of  even  one  at  the  cottage." 

Collazione  was  ready  now.  Hermione  helped  Artois 
up  from  his  chaise  longue,  and  they  went  to  the  table 
under  the  awning. 

"You  must  sit  facing  the  view,  Emile,"  Hermione 
said. 

"What  a  dining-room!"  Artois  exclaimed. 

Now  he  could  see  over  the  wall.  His  gaze  wandered 
over  the  mountain-sides,  travelled  down  to  the  land  that 
lay  along  the  edge  of  the  sea. 

"Have  you  been  fishing  much  since  I've  been  away, 
Maurice  ?"  Hermione  asked,  as  they  began  to  eat. 

"Oh  yes.  I  went  several  times.  What  wine  do  you 
like,  Monsieur  Artois?" 

He  tried  to  change  the  conversation,  but  Hermione, 
quite  innocently,  returned  to  the  subject. 

"They  fish  at  night,  you  know,  Emile,  all  along  that 
coast  by  Isola  Bella  and  on  to  the  point  there  that  looks 
like  an  island,  where  the  House  of  the  Sirens  is." 

A  tortured  look  went  across  Maurice's  face.  He  had 
begun  to  eat,  but  now  he  stopped  for  a  moment  like  a 
man  suddenly  paralyzed. 

" The  House  of  the  Sirens!"  said  Artois.  "Then  there 
are  sirens  here  ?  I  could  well  believe  it.  Have  you 
seen  them,  Monsieur  Maurice,  at  night,  when  you  have 
been  fishing?" 

He  had  been  gazing  at  the  coast,  but  now  he  turned 
towards  his  host.  Maurice  began  hastily  to  eat  again. 

"I'm  afraid  not.  But  we  didn't  look  out  for  them. 
We  were  prosaic  and  thought  of  nothing  but  the  fish." 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"And  is  there  really  a  house  down  there?"  said 
Artois. 

"Yes,"  said  Hermione.  "It  used  to  be  a  ruin,  but 
now  it's  built  up  and  occupied.  Gaspare"— she  spoke 
to  him  as  he  was  taking  a  dish  from  the  table — "who  is 
it  lives  in  the  Casa  delle  Sirene  now  ?  You  told  me,  but 
I've  forgotten." 

A  heavy,  obstinate  look  came  into  the  boy's  face, 
transforming  it.  The  question  startled  him,  and  he 
had  not  understood  a  word  of  the  conversation  which 
had  led  up  to  it.  What  had  they  been  talking  about  ? 
He  glanced  furtively  at  his  master.  Maurice  did  not  look 
at  him. 

"Salvatore  and  Maddalena,  signora,"  he  answered, 
after  a  pause. 

Then  he  took  the  dish  and  went  into  the  house. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Gaspare?"  said  Hermione. 
"I  never  saw  him  look  like  that  before — quite  ugly. 
Doesn't  he  like  these  people  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  Maurice.  "Why  —  why,  they're 
quite  friends  of  ours.  We  saw  them  at  the  fair  only 
yesterday." 

"Well,  then,  why  should  Gaspare  look  like  that?" 

"Oh,"  said  Artois,  who  saw  the  discomfort  of  his  host, 
"perhaps  there  is  some  family  feud  that  you  know 
nothing  of.  When  I  was  in  Sicily  I  found  the  people 
singularly  subtle.  They  can  gossip  terribly,  but  they 
can  keep  a  secret  when  they  choose.  If  I  had  won  the 
real  friendship  of  a  Sicilian,  I  would  rather  trust  him 
with  my  secret  than  a  man  of  any  other  race.  They  are 
not  only  loyal — that  is  not  enough — but  they  are  also 
very  intelligent." 

"Yes,  they  are  both — the  good  ones,"  said  Hermione. 
"I  would  trust  Gaspare  through  thick  and  thin.  If 
they  were  only  as  stanch  in  love  as  they  can  be  in 
friendship!" 

Gaspare  came  out  again  with  another  course.  The 
372 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

ugly  expression  had  gone  from  his  face,  but  he  still 
looked  unusually  grave. 

"Ah,  when  the  senses  are  roused  they  are  changed 
beings,"  Artois  said.  "They  hate  and  resent  govern- 
ance from  outside,  but  their  blood  governs  them." 

"Our  blood  governs  us  when  the  time  conies — do  you 
remember?" 

Hermione  had  said  the  words  before  she  remembered 
the  circumstances  in  which  they  had  been  spoken  and 
of  whom  they  were  said.  Directly  she  had  uttered  them 
she  remembered. 

"What  was  that  ?"  Maurice  asked,  before  Artois  could 
reply. 

He  had  seen  a  suddenly  conscious  look  in  Hermione's 
face,  and  instantly  he  was  aware  of  a  feeling  of  jealousy 
within  him. 

"What  was  that?"  he  repeated,  looking  quickly  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"Something  I  remember  saying  to  your  wife,"  Artois 
answered.  "We  were  talking  about  human  nature — a 
small  subject,  monsieur,  isn't  it? — and  I  think  I  ex- 
pressed the  view  of  a  fatalist.  At  any  rate,  I  did  say 
that — that  our  blood  governs  us  when  the  time  comes." 

"The  time?"  Maurice  asked. 

His  feeling  of  jealousy  died  away,  and  was  replaced 
by  a  keen  personal  interest  unmingled  with  suspicions  of 
another. 

"Well,  I  confess  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  as  if,  when 
a  certain  hour  strikes,  a  certain  deed  must  be  committed 
by  a  certain  man  or  woman.  It  is  perhaps  their  hour 
of  madness.  They  may  repent  it  to  the  day  of  their 
death.  But  can  they  in  that  hour  avoid  that  deed? 
Sometimes,  when  I  witness  the  tragic  scenes  that  oc- 
cur abruptly,  unexpectedly,  in  the  comedy  of  life,  I  am 
moved  to  wonder." 

"Then  you  should  be  very  forgiving,  Emile,"  Her- 
mione said. 

373 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"And  you?"  he  asked.  "Are  you,  or  would  you  be, 
forgiving?" 

Maurice  leaned  forward  on  the  table  and  looked  at  his 
wife  with  intensity. 

"I  hope  so,  but  I  don't  think  it  would  be  for  that — 
I  mean  because  I  thought  the  deed  might  not  have  been 
avoided.  I  think  I  should  forgive  because  I  pitied  so, 
because  I  know  how  desperately  unhappy  I  should  be 
myself  if  I  were  to  do  a  hateful  thing,  a  thing  that  was 
exceptional,  that  was  not  natural  to  my  nature  as  I  had 
generally  known  it.  When  one  really  does  love  clean- 
liness, to  have  thrown  one's  self  down  deliberately  in  the 
mud,  to  see,  to  feel,  that  one  is  soiled  from  head  to  foot 
— that  must  be  terrible.  I  think  I  should  forgive  be- 
cause I  pitied  so.  What  do  you  say,  Maurice?" 

It  was  like  a  return  to  their  talk  in  London  at 
Caminiti's  restaurant,  when  Hermione  and  Artois  dis- 
cussed topics  that  interested  them,  and  Maurice  listened 
until  Hermione  appealed  to  him  for  his  opinion.  But 
now  he  was  more  deeply  interested  than  his  companions. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  about  pity- 
ing and  forgiving,  but  I  expect  you're  right,  Hermione." 

"How?" 

"In  what  you  say  about — about  the  person  who's 
done  the  wrong  thing  feeling  awful  afterwards.  And  I 
think  Monsieur  Artois  is  right,  too — about  the  hour  of 
madness.  I'm  sure  he  is  right.  Sometimes  an  hour 
comes  and  one  seems  to  forget  everything  in  it.  One 
seems  not  to  be  really  one's  self  in  it,  but  somebody  else, 
and — and — " 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  become  aware  that,  whereas 
Hermione  and  Artois  had  been  considering  a  subject 
impersonally,  he  was  introducing  the  personal  element 
into  the  conversation.  He  stopped  short,  looked  quick- 
ly from  Hermione  to  Artois,  and  said: 

"What  I  mean  is  that  I  imagine  it's  so,  and  that  I've 
known  fellows  — in  London,  you  know  —  who've  done 
374 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   BLOOD 

such  odd  things  that  I  can  only  explain  it  like  that. 
They  must  have — well,  they  must  have  gone  practically 
mad  for  the  moment.  You  —  you  see  what  I  mean, 
Hermione?" 

The  question  was  uneasy. 

"Yes,  but  I  think  we  can  control  ourselves.  If  we 
couldn't,  remorse  would  lose  half  its  meaning.  I  could 
never  feel  remorse  because  I  had  been  mad  —  horror, 
perhaps,  but  not  remorse.  It  seems  to  me  that  remorse 
is  our  sorrow  for  our  own  weakness,  the  heart's  cry  of 
'I  need  not  have  done  the  hateful  thing,  and  I  did  it, 
I  chose  to  do  it!'  But  I  could  pity,  I  could  pity,  and 
forgive  because  of  my  pity." 

Gaspare  came  out  with  coffee. 

"And  then,  Emile,  you  must  have  a  siesta,"  said 
Hermione.  "This  is  a  tiring  day  for  you.  Maurice  and 
I  will  leave  you  quite  alone  in  the  sitting-room." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  sleep,"  said  Artois. 

He  was  feeling  oddly  excited,  and  attributed  the 
sensation  to  his  weak  state  of  health.  For  so  long  he 
had  been  shut  up,  isolated  from  the  world,  that  even 
this  coming  out  was  an  event.  He  was  accustomed  to 
examine  his  feelings  calmly,  critically,  to  track  them  to 
their  sources.  He  tried  to  do  so  now. 

"I  must  beware  of  my  own  extra  sensitiveness,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "I'm  still  weak.  I  am  not  normal. 
I  may  see  things  distorted.  I  may  exaggerate,  turn 
the  small  into  the  great.  At  least  half  of  what  I  think 
and  feel  to-day  may  come  from  my  peculiar  state." 

Thus  he  tried  to  raise  up  barriers  against  his  feeling 
that  Delarey  had  got  into  some  terrible  trouble  during 
the  absence  of  Hermione,  that  he  was  now  stricken  with 
remorse,  and  that  he  was  also  in  active  dread  of  some- 
thing, perhaps  of  some  Nemesis. 

"All  this  may  be  imagination,"  Artois  thought,  as 
he  sipped  his  coffee.  But  he  said  again: 

"I  don't  think  I  could  sleep.  I  feel  abnormally  alive 
375 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

to-day.     Do  you  know  the  sensation,  as  if  one  were  too 
quick,  as  if  all  the  nerves  were  standing  at  attention?" 

"Then  our  peace  here  does  not  soothe  you?"  Her- 
mione  said. 

"If  I  must  be  truthful — no,"  he  answered. 

He  met  Maurice's  restless  glance. 

"I  think  I've  had  enough  coffee,"  he  added.  "Coffee 
stimulates  the  nerves  too  much  at  certain  times." 

Maurice  finished  his  and  asked  for  another  cup. 

"He  isn't  afraid  of  being  overstimulated,"  said  Her- 
mione.  "But,  Emile,  you  ought  to  sleep.  You'll  be 
dead  tired  this  evening  when  you  ride  down." 

"This  evening,"  Hermione  had  said.  Maurice  won- 
dered suddenly  how  late  Artois  was  going  to  stay  at  the 
cottage. 

"Oh  no,  it  will  be  cool,"  Artois  said. 

"Yes,"  Maurice  said.  "Towards  five  we  get  a  little 
wind  from  the  sea  nearly  always,  even  sooner  some- 
times. I — I  usually  go  down  to  bathe  about  that 
time." 

"I  must  begin  to  bathe,  too,"  Hermione  said. 

"What — to-day!"  Maurice  said,  quickly. 

"Oh  no.     Emile  is  here  to-day." 

Then  Artois  did  not  mean  to  go  till  late.  But  he — 
Maurice — must  go  down  to  the  sea  before  nightfall. 

"Unless  I  bathe,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  naturally — 
"unless  I  bathe  I  feel  the  heat  too  much  at  night.  A 
dip  in  the  sea  does  wonders  for  me." 

"And  in  such  a  sea!"  said  Artois.  "You  must  have 
your  dip  to-day.  I  shall  go  directly  that  little  wind 
you  speak  of  comes.  I  told  a  boy  to  come  up  from  the 
village  at  four  to  lead  the  donkey  down." 

He  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"  Dreadful  to  be  such  a  weakling,  isn't  it  ?"  he  said. 

"Hush.     Don't  talk  like  that.     It's  all  going  away. 
Strength  is  coming.     You'll  soon  be  your  old  self.     But 
you've  got  to  look  forward  all  the  time." 
376 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Hermione  spoke  with  a  warmth,  an  energy  that 
braced.  She  spoke  to  Artois,  but  Maurice,  eager  to  grasp 
at  any  comfort,  strove  to  take  the  words  to  himself. 
This  evening  the  climax  of  his  Sicilian  tragedy  must 
come.  And  then?  Beyond,  might  there  not  be  the 
calm,  the  happiness  of  a  sane  life?  He  must  look  for- 
ward, he  would  look  forward. 

But  when  he  looked,  there  stood  Maddalena  weeping. 

He  hated  himself.  He  loved  happiness,  he  longed  for 
it,  but  he  knew  he  had  lost  his  right  to  it,  if  any  man 
ever  has  such  a  right.  He  had  created  suffering.  How 
dared  he  expect,  how  dared  he  even  wish,  to  escape  from 
suffering  ? 

"Now,  Emile,"  Hermione  said,  "you  have  really  got 
to  go  in  and  lie  down  whether  you  feel  sleepy  or  not. 
Don't  protest.  Maurice  and  I  have  hardly  seen  anything 
of  each  other  yet.  We  want  to  get  rid  of  you." 

She  spoke  laughingly,  and  laughingly  he  obeyed  her. 
When  she  had  settled  him  comfortably  in  the  sitting- 
room  she  came  out  again  to  the  terrace  where  her  hus- 
band was  standing,  looking  towards  the  sea.  She  had 
a  rug  over  her  arm  and  was  holding  two  cushions. 

"I  thought  you  and  I  might  go  down  and  take  our 
siesta  under  the  oak-trees,  Maurice.  Would  you  like 
that?" 

He  was  longing  to  get  away,  to  go  up  to  the  heap  of 
stones  on  the  mountain -top  and  set  a  match  to  the 
fragments  of  Hermione's  letter,  which  the  dangerous 
wind  might  disturb,  might  bring  out  into  the  light  of 
day.  But  he  acquiesced  at  once.  He  would  go  later — 
if  not  this  afternoon,  then  at  night  when  he  came  back 
from  the  sea.  They  went  down  and  spread  the  rug 
under  the  shadow  of  the  oaks. 

"I  used  to  read  to  Gaspare  here,"  he  said.  "When 
you  were  away  in  Africa." 

"What  did  you  read?" 

"The  Arabian  Nights." 

377 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  stretched  herself  on  the  rug. 

"To  lie  here  and  read  the  Arabian  Nights  !  And  you 
want  to  go  away,  Maurice  ?" 

"I  think  it's  time  to  go.  If  I  stayed  too  long  here 
I  should  become  fit  for  nothing." 

"Yes,  that's  true,  I  dare. say.  But — Maurice,  it's  so 
strange — I  have  a  feeling  as  if  you  would  always  be  in 
Sicily.  I  know  it's  absurd,  and  yet  I  have  it.  I  feel 
as  if  you  belonged  to  Sicily,  and  Sicily  did  not  mean 
to  part  from  you." 

"That  can't  be.     How  could  I  stay  here  always?" 

"I  know." 

"Unless,"  he  said,  as  if  some  new  thought  had  started 
suddenly  into  his  mind — "unless  I  were — " 

He  stopped.  He  had  remembered  his  sensation  in 
the  sea  that  gray  morning  of  sirocco.  He  had  remem- 
bered how  he  had  played  at  dying. 

"What?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  understood. 

"Maurice — don't!     I — I  can't  bear  that!" 

"Not  one  of  us  can  know,"  he  answered. 

"I — I  thought  of  that  once,"  she  said — "long  ago, 
on  the  first  night  that  we  were  here.  I  don't  know  why 
— but  perhaps  it  was  because  I  was  so  happy.  I  think 
it  must  have  been  that.  I  suppose,  in  this  world,  there 
must  aways  be  dread  in  one's  happiness,  the  thought 
it  may  stop  soon,  it  may  end.  But  why  should  it? 
Is  God  cruel  ?  I  think  He  wants  us  to  be  happy." 

"If  he  wants  us — " 

"And  that  we  prevent  ourselves  from  being  happy. 
But  we  won't  do  that,  Maurice — you  and  I — will  we  ?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"This  world — nature — is  so  wonderfully  beautiful,  so 
happily  beautiful.  Surely  we  can  learn  to  be  happy, 
to  keep  happy  in  it.  Look  at  that  sky,  that  sea!  Look 
at  the  plain  over  there  by  the  foot  of  Etna,  and  the 
coast-line  fading  away,  and  Etna.  The  God  who  created 
378 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

it  all  must  have  meant  men  to  be  happy  in  such  a  world. 
It  isn't  my  brain  tells  me  that,  Maurice,  it's  my  heart,  my 
whole  heart  that  you  have  made  whole.  And  I  know 
it  tells  the  truth."  + 

Her  words  were  terrible  to  him.  The  sound  of  a  step, 
a  figure  standing  before  her,  a  few  Sicilian  words — and 
all  this  world  in  which  she  gloried  would  be  changed 
for  her.  But  she  must  not  know.  He  felt  that  he 
would  be  willing  to  die  to  keep  her  ignorant  of  the 
truth  forever. 

"Now  we  must  try  to  sleep,"  he  said,  to  prevent  her 
from  speaking  any  more  of  the  words  that  were  tortur- 
ing him.  "We  must  have  our  siesta.  I  had  very  little 
sleep  last  night." 

"And  I  had  none  at  all.     But  now — we're  together." 

He  arranged  the  cushion  for  her.  They  lay  in  soft 
shadow  and  could  see  the  shining  world.  The  distant 
gleams  upon  the  sea  spoke  to  her.  She  fancied  them 
voices  rising  out  of  the  dream  of  the  waters,  voices  from 
the  breast  of  nature  that  was  the  breast  of  God,  saying 
that  she  was  not  in  error,  that  God  did  mean  men  to 
be  happy,  that  they  could  be  happy  if  they  would  learn 
of  Him. 

She  watched  those  gleams  until  she  fell  asleep. 


XX 

WHEN  Hermione  woke  it  was  four  o'clock.  She  sat 
up  on  the  rug,  looked  down  over  the  mountain  flank  to 
the  sea,  then  turned  and  saw  her  husband.  He  was 
lying  with  his  face  half  buried  in  his  folded  arms. 

"Maurice!"  she  said,  softly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  lifting  his  face. 

"Then  you  weren't  asleep!" 

"No." 

"Have  you  been  asleep?" 

"No." 

She  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  All  this  time!  It's  four.  What  a  disgraceful  siesta! 
But  I  was  really  tired  after  the  long  journey  and  the 
night." 

She  stood  up.  He  followed  her  example  and  threw 
the  rug  over  his  arm. 

"Emile  will  think  we've  deserted  him  and  aren't  go- 
ing to  give  him  any  tea." 

"Yes." 

They  began  to  walk  up  the  track  towards  the  ter- 
race. 

"Maurice,"  Hermione  said,  presently,  more  thoroughly 
wide-awake  now.  "  Did  you  get  up  while  I  was  asleep  ? 
Did  you  begin  to  move  away  from  me,  and  did  I  stop 
you,  or  was  it  a  dream  ?  I  have  a  kind  of  vague  recol- 
lection— or  is  it  only  imagination? — of  stretching  out 
my  hand  and  saying,  '  Don't  leave  me  alone  —  don't 
leave  me  alone!'" 

"I  moved  a  little,"  he  answered,  after  a  slight  pause. 
380 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"And  you  did  stretch  out  your  hand  and  murmur  some- 
thing." 

"It  was  that — 'don't  leave  me  alone.'" 

"  Perhaps.     I  couldn't  hear.     It  was  such  a  murmur." 

"And  you  only  moved  a  little?  How  stupid  of  me 
to  think  you  were  getting  up  to  go  away!" 

"When  one  is  half  asleep  one  has  odd  ideas  often." 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  been  getting  up  softly, 
hoping  to  steal  away  to  the  mountain-top  and  destroy 
the  fragments  of  her  letter,  hidden  there,  while  she  slept. 

"You  won't  mind,"  he  added,  "if  I  go  down  to  bathe 
this  evening.  I  sha'n't  sleep  properly  to-night  unless 
I  do." 

"Of  course — go.  But  won't  it  be  rather  late  after 
tea?" 

"Oh  no.     I've  often  been  in  at  sunset." 

"  How  delicious  the  water  must  look  then!     Maurice!" 

"Yes?" 

"Shall  I  come  with  you?  Shall  I  bathe,  too?  It 
would  be  lovely,  refreshing,  after  this  heat!  It  would 
wash  away  all  the  dust  of  the  train!" 

Her  face  was  glowing  with  the  anticipation  of  pleas- 
ure. Every  little  thing  done  with  him  was  an  enchant- 
ment after  the  weeks  of  separation. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  you'd  better,  Hermione,"  he  an- 
swered, hastily.  "  I — you — there  might  be  people.  I — 
I  must  rig  you  up  something  first,  a  tent  of  some  kind. 
Gaspare  and  I  will  do  it.  I  can't  have  my  wife — " 

"All  right,"  she  said. 

She  tried  to  keep  the  disappointment  out  of  her  voice. 

"How  lucky  you  men  are!  You  can  do  anything. 
And  there's  no  fuss.  Ah,  there's  poor  Emile,  patiently 
waiting!" 

Artois   was    already   established   once   more   in   the 

chaise  longue.     He  greeted  them  with  a  smile  that  was 

gentle,  almost  tender.     Those  evil  feelings  to  which  he 

had  been  a  prey  in  London  had  died  away.     He  loved 

38* 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

now  to  see  the  happiness  in  Hermione's  face.  His  ill- 
ness had  swept  out  his  selfishness,  and  in  it  he  had 
proved  her  affection.  He  did  not  think  that  he  could 
ever  be  jealous  of  her  again. 

"Sleeping  all  this  time?"  he  said. 

"I  was.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  My  hair  is  full  of 
mountain -side,  but  you  must  forgive  me,  Emile.  Ah, 
there's  Lucrezia!  Is  tea  ready,  Lucrezia?" 

"Si,  signora." 

"Then  ask  Gaspare  to  bring  it." 

"Gaspare — he  isn't  here,  signora.     But  I'll  bring  it." 

She  went  away. 

"  Where's  Gaspare,  I  wonder  ?"  said  Hermione.  "  Have 
you  seen  him,  Emile?" 

"No." 

"Perhaps  he's  sleeping,  too.  He  sleeps  generally 
among  the  hens." 

She  looked  round  the  corner  into  the  out-house. 

"No,  he  isn't  there.  Have  you  sent  him  anywhere, 
Maurice  ?" 

"I?     No.     Where  should  I—" 

"I  only  thought  you  looked  as  if  you  knew  where  he 
was." 

"No.  But  he  may  have  gone  out  after  birds  and 
forgotten  the  time.  Here's  tea!" 

These  few  words  had  renewed  in  Maurice  the  fever  of 
impatience  to  get  away  and  meet  his  enemy.  This  wait- 
ing, this  acting  of  a  part,  this  suspense,  were  almost 
unbearable.  All  the  time  that  Hermione  slept  he  had 
been  thinking,  turning  over  again  and  again  in  his  mind 
the  coming  scene,  trying  to  imagine  how  it  would  be, 
how  violent  or  how  deadly,  trying  to  decide  exactly 
what  line  of  conduct  he  should  pursue.  What  would 
Salvatore  demand?  What  would  he  say  or  do?  And 
where  would  they  meet?  If  Salvatore  waited  for  his 
coming  they  would  meet  at  the  House  of  the  Sirens. 
And  Maddalena?  She  would  be  there.  His  heart 
382 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

sickened.  He  was  ready  to  face  a  man — but  not  Mad- 
dalena.  He  thought  of  Gaspare's  story  of  the  fallen 
olive-branch  upon  which  Salvatore  had  spat.  It  was 
strange  to  be  here  in  this  calm  place  with  these  two 
happy  people,  wife  and  friend,  and  to  wonder  what  was 
waiting  for  him  down  there  by  the  sea. 

How  lonely  our  souls  are! — something  like  that  he 
thought.  Circumstances  were  turning  him  away  from 
his  thoughtless  youth.  He  had  imagined  it  sinking 
down  out  of  his  sight  into  the  purple  sea,  with  the  magic 
island  in  which  it  had  danced  the  tarantella  and  heard 
the  voice  of  the  siren.  But  was  it  not  leaving  him, 
vanishing  from  him  while  still  his  feet  trod  the  island 
and  his  eyes  saw  her  legendary  mountains? 

Gaspare,  he  knew,  was  on  the  watch.  That  was  why 
he  was  absent  from  his  duties.  But  the  hour  was  at 
hand  when  he  would  be  relieved.  The  evening  was 
coming.  Maurice  was  glad.  He  was  ready  to  face  even 
violence,  but  he  felt  that  he  could  not  for  much  longer 
endure  suspense  and  play  the  quiet  host  and  husband. 

Tea  was  over  and  Gaspare  had  not  returned.  The 
clock  he  had  bought  at  the  fair  struck  five. 

"I  ought  to  be  going,"  Artois  said. 

There  was  reluctance  in  his  voice.  Hermione  noticed 
it  and  knew  what  he  was  feeling. 

"You  must  come  up  again  very  soon,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  come  to-morrow,  won't  you?"  Mau- 
rice seconded  her. 

The  thought  of  what  was  going  to  happen  before  to- 
morrow made  it  seem  to  him  a  very  long  way  off. 

Hermione  looked  pleased. 

"I  must  not  be  a  bore,"  Artois  answered.  "I  must 
not  remind  you  and  myself  of  limpets.  There  are  rocks 
in  your  garden  which  might  suggest  the  comparison.  I 
think  to-morrow  I  ought  to  stay  quietly  in  Marechiaro." 

"No,  no,"  said  Maurice.     "Do  come  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  I  can't  pretend  that  I  do 
383 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

not  wish  to  come.     And  now  that  donkey-boy — has  he 
climbed  up,  I  wonder?" 

"I'll  go  and  see,"  said  Maurice. 

He  was  feverishly  impatient  to  get  rid  of  Artois.  He 
hurried  to  the  arch.  A  long  way  off,  near  the  path  that 
led  up  from  the  ravine,  he  saw  a  figure  with  a  gun.  He 
was  not  sure,  but  he  was  almost  sure  that  it  was  Gaspare. 
It  must  be  he.  The  gun  made  him  look,  indeed,  a  sen- 
tinel. If  Salvatore  came  the  boy  would  stop  him,  stop 
him,  if  need  be,  at  the  cost  of  his  own  life.  Maurice  felt 
sure  of  that,  and  realized  the  danger  of  setting  such 
faithfulness  and  violence  to  be  sentinel.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  at  the  figure.  Yes,  he  knew  it  now 
for  Gaspare.  The  boy  had  forgotten  tea-time,  had  for- 
gotten everything,  in  his  desire  to  carry  out  his  padrone's 
instructions.  The  signora  was  not  to  know.  She  was 
never  to  know.  And  Salvatore  might  come.  Very 
well,  then,  he  was  there  in  the  sun — ready. 

"  We'll  never  part  from  Gaspare,"  Maurice  thought,  as 
he  looked  and  understood. 

He  saw  no  other  figure.  The  donkey-boy  had  per- 
haps forgotten  his  mission  or  had  started  late.  Maurice 
chafed  bitterly  at  the  delay.  But  he  could  not  well 
leave  his  guest  on  this  first  day  of  his  coming  to  Monte 
Amato,  more  especially  after  the  events  of  the  preceding 
day.  To  do  so  would  seem  discourteous.  He  returned 
to  the  terrace  ill  at  ease,  but  strove  to  disguise  his  rest- 
lessness. It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  the  boy  at  last 
appeared.  Artois  at  once  bade  Hermione  and  Maurice 
good-bye  and  mounted  his  donkey. 

"  You  will  come  to-morrow,  then  ?"  Maurice  said  to  him 
at  parting. 

"I  haven't  the  courage  to  refuse,"  Artois  replied. 
"Good-bye." 

He  had  already  shaken  Maurice's  hand,  but  now  he 
extended  his  hand  again. 

",It  is  good  of  you  to  make  me  so  welcome,"  he  said. 
384 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  paused,  holding  Maurice's  hand  in  his.  Both  Her- 
mione  and  Maurice  thought  he  was  going  to  say  something 
more,  but  he  glanced  at  her,  dropped  his  host's  hand, 
lifted  his  soft  hat,  and  signed  to  the  boy  to  lead  the 
donkey  away. 

Hermione  and  Maurice  followed  to  the  arch,  and  from 
there  watched  him  riding  slowly  down  till  he  was  out  of 
sight.  Maurice  looked  for  Gaspare,  but  did  not  see  him. 
He  must  have  moved  into  the  shadow  of  the  ravine. 

' '  Dear  old  Emile ! ' '  Hermione  said .  "He's  been  happy 
to-day.  You've  made  him  very  happy,  Maurice.  Bless 
you  for  it!" 

Maurice  said  nothing.  Now  the  moment  had  arrived 
when  he  could  go  he  felt  a  strange  reluctance  to  say 
good-bye  to  Hermione,  even  for  a  short  time.  So  much 
might — must — happen  before  he  saw  her  again  that 
evening. 

"And  you?"  she  said,  at  last,  as  he  was  silent.  "Are 
you  really  going  down  to  bathe?  Isn't  it  too  late?" 

"Oh  no.  I  must  have  a  dip.  It  will  do  me  all  the 
good  in  the  world."  He  tried  to  speak  buoyantly,  but 
the  words  seemed  to  himself  to  come  heavily  from  his 
tongue. 

"Will  you  take  Tito?" 

"I — no,  I  think  I'll  walk.  I  shall  get  down  quicker, 
and  I  like  going  into  the  sea  when  I'm  hot.  I'll  just 
fetch  my  bathing  things." 

They  walked  back  together  to  the  house.  Maurice 
wondered  what  had  suddenly  come  to  him.  He  felt 
horribly  sad  now — yet  he  wished  to  get  the  scene  that 
awaited  him  over.  He  was  longing  to  have  it  over. 
He  went  into  the  house,  got  his  bathing-dress  and  towels, 
and  came  out  again  onto  the  terrace. 

"I  shall  be  a  little  late  back,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"Yes.     It's  six  o'clock  now.     Shall  we  dine  at  half- 
past  eight — or  better  say  nine  ?     That  will  give  you 
plenty  of  time  to  come  up  quietly." 
38s 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Yes.     Let's  say  nine." 

Still  he  did  not  move  to  go. 

"  Have  you  been  happy  to-day,  Hermione  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  very — since  this  morning." 

"Since?" 

"Yes.     This  morning  I — " 

She  stopped. 

"I  was  a  little  puzzled,"  she  said,  after  a  minute,  with 
her  usual  frankness.  "Tell  me,  Maurice — you  weren't 
made  unhappy  by — by  what  I  told  you?" 

"About — about  the  child?" 

"Yes." 

He  did  not  answer  with  words,  but  he  put  his  arms 
about  her  and  kissed  her,  as  he  had  not  kissed  her  since 
she  went  away  to  Africa.  She  shut  her  eyes.  Presently 
she  felt  the  pressure  of  his  arms  relax. 

"I'm  perfectly  happy  now,"  she  said.  "Perfectly 
happy." 

He  moved  away  a  step  or  two.  His  face  was  flushed, 
and  she  thought  that  he  looked  younger,  that  the  boyish 
expression  she  loved  had  come  back  to  him. 

"Good-bye,  Hermione,"  he  said. 

Still  he  did  not  go.  She  thought  that  he  had  some- 
thing more  to  say  but  did  not  know  how  to  say  it.  She 
felt  so  certain  of  this  that  she  said: 

"What  is  it,  Maurice?" 

"We  shall  come  back  to  Sicily,  I  suppose,  sha'n't  we, 
some  time  or  other  ?" 

"Surely.     Many  times,  I  hope." 

"Suppose — one  can  never  tell  what  will  happen — 
suppose  one  of  us  were  to  die  here  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  soberly. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  good  to  lie  there  where 
we  lay  this  afternoon,  under  the  oak-trees,  in  sight  of 
Etna  and  the  sea?  I  think  it  would.  Good-bye, 
Hermione." 

He  swung  the  bathing-dress  and  the  towels  up  over 
386 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

his  shoulder  and  went  away  through  the  arch.  She 
followed  and  watched  him  springing  down  the  mountain- 
side. Just  before  he  reached  the  ravine  he  turned  and 
waved  his  hand  to  her.  His  movements,  that  last 
gesture,  were  brimful  of  energy  and  of  life.  He  acted 
better  then  than  he  had  that  day  upon  the  terrace. 
But  the  sense  of  progress,  the  feeling  that  he  was  going 
to  meet  fate  in  the  person  of  Salvatore,  quickened  the 
blood  within  him.  At  last  the  suspense  would  be  over. 
At  last  he  would  be  obliged  to  play  not  the  actor  but  the 
man.  He  longed  to  be  down  by  the  sea.  The  youth  in 
him  rose  up  at  the  thought  of  action,  and  his  last  fare- 
well to  Hermione,  looking  down  to  him  from  the  arch, 
was  bold  and  almost  careless. 

Scarcely  had  he  got  into  the  ravine  before  he  met 
Gaspare.  He  stopped.  The  boy's  face  was  aflame  with 
expression  as  he  stood,  holding  his  gun,  in  front  of  his 
padrone. 

"Gaspare!"  Maurice  said  to  him. 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  grasped  the  boy's  hot  hand. 

"I  sha'n't  forget  your  faithful  service,"  he  said. 
"Thank  you,  Gaspare." 

He  wanted  to  say  more,  to  find  other  and  far  different 
words.  But  he  could  not. 

"Let  me  come  with  you,  signorino." 

The  boy's  voice  was  intensely,  almost  savagely, 
earnest. 

"No.     You  must  stay  with  the  signora." 

"I  want  to  come  with  you." 

His  great  eyes  were  fastened  on  his  padrone's  face. 

"I  have  always  been  with  you." 

"But  you  were  with  the  signora  first.  You  were  her 
servant.  You  must  stay  with  her  now.  Remember  one 
thing,  Gaspare — the  signora  is  never  to  know." 

The  boy  nodded.  His  eyes  still  held  Maurice.  They 
glittered  as  if  with  leaping  fires.  That  deep  and  passion- 
ate spirit  of  Sicilian  loyalty,  which  is  almost  savage  in  its 
387 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

intensity  and  heedless  of  danger,  which  is  ready  to  go  to 
hell  with,  or  for,  a  friend  or  a  master  who  is  beloved  and 
believed  in,  was  awake  in  Gaspare,  illuminated  him  at 
this  moment.  The  peasant  boy  looked  noble. 

"Mayn't  I  come  with  you,  signorino?" 

"Gaspare,"  Maurice  said,  "  I  must  leave  some  one  with 
the  padrona.  Salvatore  might  come  still.  I  may  miss 
him  going  down.  Whom  can  I  trust  to  stop  Salvatore, 
if  he  comes,  but  you  ?  You  see  ?" 

"Va  bene,  signorino." 

The  boy  seemed  convinced,  but  he  suffered  and  did 
not  try  to  conceal  it. 

"Now  I  must  go,"  Maurice  said. 

He  shook  Gaspare's  hand. 

"  Have  you  got  the  revolver,  signorino  ?"  said  the  boy. 

"No.     I  am  not  going  to  fight  with  Salvatore." 

"How  do  you  know  what  Salvatore  will  do?" 

Maurice  looked  down  upon  the  stones  that  lay  on  the 
narrow  path. 

"My  revolver  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  Madda- 
lena's  father,"  he  said. 

He  sighed. 

"That's  how  it  is,  Gaspare.     Addio!" 

"Addio,  signorino." 

Maurice  went  on  down  the  path  into  the  shadow  of  the 
trees.  Presently  he  turned.  Gaspare  stood  quite  still, 
looking  after  him. 

"Signorino!"  he  called.  "May  I  not  come?  I  want 
to  come  with  you." 

Maurice  waved  his  hand  towards  the  mountain-side. 

"Go  to  the  signora,"  he  called  back.  "And  look  out 
for  me  to-night.  Addio,  Gaspare!" 

The  boy's  "Addio!"  came  to  him  sadly  through  the 
gathering  shadows  of  the  evening. 

Presently  Hermione,  who  was  sitting  alone  on  the 
terrace  with  a  book  in  her  lap  which  she  was  not  reading, 
saw  Gaspare  walking  listlessly  through  the  archway 
388 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

holding  his  gun.  He  came  slowly  towards  her,  lifted  his 
hat,  and  was  going  on  without  a  word,  but  she  stopped 
him. 

"Why,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  lightly,  "you  forgot  us 
to-day.  How  was  that?" 

"Signora?" 

Again  she  saw  the  curious,  almost  ugly,  look  of  obsti- 
nacy, which  she  had  already  noticed,  come  into  his  face. 

"You  didn't  remember  about  tea-time!" 

"Signora,"  he  answered,  "I  am  sorry." 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly  while  he  spoke. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  again. 

"Never  mind,"  Hermione  said,  unable  to  blame  him 
on  this  first  day  of  her  return.  "I  dare  say  you  have 
got  out  of  regular  habits  while  I've  been  away.  What 
have  you  been  doing  all  the  time  ?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Niente." 

Again  she  wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  the 
boy  to-day.  Where  were  his  life  and  gayety?  Where 
was  his  sense  of  fun?  He  used  to  be  always  joking, 
singing.  But  now  he  was  serious,  almost  heavy  in 
demeanor. 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  jokingly,  "I  think  you've  all  be- 
come very  solemn  without  me.  I  am  the  old  person  of 
the  party,  but  I  begin  to  believe  that  it  is  I  who  keep  you 
lively.  I  mustn't  go  away  again." 

"No,  signora,"  he  answered,  earnestly;  "you  must 
never  go  away  from  us  again.  You  should  never  have 
gone  away  from  us." 

The  deep  solemnity  of  his  great  eyes  startled  her.  He 
put  on  his  hat  and  went  away  round  the  angle  of  the 
cottage. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  him?"  she  thought. 

She  remained  sitting  there  on  the  terrace,  wondering. 
Now  she  thought  over  things  quietly,  it  struck  her  as 
strange  the  fact  that  she  had  left  behind  her  in  the 
389 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

priest's  house  three  light-hearted  people,  and  had  come 
back  to  find  Lucrezia  drowned  in  sorrow,  Gaspare  solemn, 
even  mysterious  in  his  manner,  and  her  husband — but 
here  her  thoughts  paused,  not  labelling  Maurice.  At  first 
he  had  puzzled  her  the  most.  But  she  thought  she  had 
found  reasons  for  the  change — a  passing  one,  she  felt 
sure  —  in  him.  He  had  secretly  resented  her  absence, 
and,  though  utterly  free  from  any  ignoble  suspicion  of 
her,  he  had  felt  boyishly  jealous  of  her  friendship  with 
Emile.  That  was  very  natural.  For  this  was  their 
honeymoon.  She  considered  it  their  honeymoon  pro- 
longed, delightfully  prolonged,  beyond  any  fashionable 
limit.  Lucrezia's  depression  was  easily  comprehensible. 
The  change  in  her  husband  she  accounted  for;  but  now 
here  was  Gaspare  looking  dismal! 

"I  must  cheer  them  all  up,"  she  thought  to  herself. 
"This  beautiful  time  mustn't  end  dismally." 

And  then  she  thought  of  the  inevitable  departure. 
Was  Maurice  looking  forward  to  it,  desiring  it  ?  He  had 
spoken  that  day  as  if  he  wished  to  be  off.  In  London 
she  had  been  able  to  imagine  him  in  the  South,  in  the 
highway  of  the  sun.  But  now  that  she  was  here  in 
Sicily  she  could  not  imagine  him  in  London. 

"  He  is  not  in  his  right  place  there,"  she  thought. 

Yet  they  must  go,  and  soon.  She  knew  that  they 
were  going,  and  yet  she  could  not  feel  that  they  were 
going.  What  she  had  said  under  the  oak-trees  was  true. 
In  the  spring  her  tender  imagination  had  played  softly 
with  the  idea  of  Sicily's  joy  in  the  possession  of  her  son, 
of  Maurice .  Would  Sicily  part  from  him  without  an  effort 
to  retain  him  ?  Would  Sicily  let  him  go  ?  She  smiled 
to  herself  at  her  fancies.  But  if  Sicily  kept  him,  how 
would  she  keep  him  ?  The  smile  left  her  lips  and  her 
eyes  as  she  thought  of  Maurice's  suggestion.  That  would 
be  too  horrible.  God  would  not  allow  that.  And  yet 
what  tragedies  He  allowed  to  come  into  the  lives  of 
others.  She  faced  certain  facts,  as  she  sat  there,  facts 
390 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

permitted,  or  deliberately  brought  about  by  the  Divine 
Will.  The  scourge  of  war — that  sowed  sorrows  over  a 
land  as  the  sower  in  the  field  scatters  seeds.  She,  like 
others,  had  sat  at  home  and  read  of  battles  in  which 
thousands  of  men  had  been  killed,  and  she  had  grieved 
— or  had  she  really  grieved,  grieved  with  her  heart  ? 
She  began  to  wonder,  thinking  of  Maurice's  veiled  allusion 
to  the  possibility  of  his  death.  He  was  the  spirit  of 
youth  to  her.  And  all  the  boys  slain  in  battle!  Had 
not  each  one  of  them  represented  the  spirit  of  youth  to 
some  one,  to  some  woman — mother,  sister,  wife,  lover  ? 

What  were  those  women's  feelings  towards  God? 

She  wondered.  She  wondered  exceedingly.  And  pres- 
ently a  terrible  thought  came  into  her  mind.  It  was 
this.  How  can  one  forgive  God  if  He  snatches  away  the 
spirit  of  youth  that  one  loves  ? 

Under  the  shadow  of  the  oak-trees  she  had  lain  that 
day  and  looked  out  upon  the  shining  world — upon  the 
waters,  upon  the  plains,  upon  the  mountains,  upon  the 
calling  coast  -  line  and  the  deep  passion  of  the  blue. 
And  she  had  felt  the  infinite  love  of  God.  When  she  had 
thought  of  God,  she  had  thought  of  Him  as  the  great 
Provider  of  happiness,  as  One  who  desired,  with  a  heart 
too  large  and  generous  for  the  mere  accurate  conception 
of  man,  the  joy  of  man. 

But  Maurice  was  beside  her  then. 

Those  whose  lives  had  been  ruined  by  great  tragedies, 
when  they  looked  out  upon  the  shining  world  what  must 
they  think,  feel  ? 

She  strove  to  imagine.  Their  conception  of  God  must 
surely  be  very  different  from  hers. 

Once  she  had  been  almost  unable  to  believe  that  God 
could  choose  her  to  be  the  recipient  of  a  supreme  hap- 
piness. But  we  accustom  ourselves  with  a  wonderful 
readiness  to  a  happy  fate.  She  had  come  back — she 
had  been  allowed  to  return  to  the  Garden  of  Paradise. 
And  this  fact  had  given  to  her  a  confidence  in  life  which 
391 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

was  almost  audacious.  So  now,  even  while  she  imagined 
the  sorrows  of  others,  half  strove  to  imagine  what  her 
own  sorrows  might  be,  her  inner  feeling  was  still  one  of 
confidence.  She  looked  out  on  the  shining  world,  and 
in  her  heart  was  the  shining  world.  She  looked  out  on 
the  glory  of  the  blue,  and  in  her  heart  was  the  glory  of 
the  blue.  The  world  shone  for  her  because  she  had 
Maurice.  She  knew  that.  But  there  was  light  in  it. 
There  would  always  be  light  whatever  happened  to  any 
human  creature.  There  would  always  be  the  sun,  the 
great  symbol  of  joy.  It  rose  even  upon  the  battle-field 
where  the  heaps  of  the  dead  were  lying. 

She  could  not  realize  sorrow  to-day.  She  must  see 
the  sunlight  even  in  the  deliberate  visions  conjured  up 
by  her  imagination. 

Gaspare  did  not  reappear.  For  a  long  time  she  was 
alone.  She  watched  the  changing  of  the  light,  the 
softening  of  the  great  landscape  as  the  evening  ap- 
proached. Sometimes  she  thought  of  Maurice's  last 
words  about  being  laid  to  rest  some  day  in  the  shadows 
of  the  oak-trees,  in  sight  of  Etna  and  the  sea.  When 
the  years  had  gone,  perhaps  they  would  lie  together  in 
Sicily,  wrapped  in  the  final  siesta  of  the  body.  Perhaps 
the  unborn  child,  of  whose  beginning  she  was  mystically 
conscious,  would  lay  them  to  rest  there. 

"Buon  riposo."  She  loved  the  Sicilian  good-night. 
Better  than  any  text  she  would  love  to  have  those 
simple  words  written  above  her  sleeping-place  and  his. 
"Buon  riposo!" — she  murmured  the  words  to  herself  as 
she  looked  at  the  quiet  of  the  hills,  at  the  quiet  of  the 
sea.  The  glory  of  the  world  was  inspiring,  but  the  peace 
of  the  world  was  almost  more  uplifting,  she  thought. 
Far  off,  in  the  plain,  she  discerned  tiny  trails  of  smoke 
from  Sicilian  houses  among  the  orange-trees  beside  the 
sea.  The  gold  was  fading.  The  color  of  the  waters  was 
growing  paler,  gentler,  the  color  of  the  sky  less  passionate. 
The  last  point  of  the  coast-line  was  only  a  shadow  now, 
393 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

scarcely  that.  Somewhere  was  the  sunset,  its  wonder 
unseen  by  her,  but  realized  because  of  this  growing  ten- 
derness, that  was  like  a  benediction  falling  upon  her  from 
a  distant  love,  intent  to  shield  her  and  her  little  home 
from  sorrow  and  from  danger.  Nature  was  whispering 
her  "Buon  riposo!"  Her  hushed  voice  spoke  with- 
drawn among  the  mountains,  withdrawn  upon  the 
spaces  of  the  sea.  The  heat  of  the  golden  day  was 
blessed,  but  after  it  how  blessed  was  the  cool  of  the  dim 
night! 

Again  she  thought  that  the  God  who  had  placed  man 
in  the  magnificent  scheme  of  the  world  must  have  in- 
tended and  wished  him  to  be  always  happy  there.  Nature 
seemed  to  be  telling  her  this,  and  her  heart  was  con- 
vinced by  Nature,  though  the  story  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment had  sometimes  left  her  smiling  or  left  her  wonder- 
ing. Men  had  written  a  Bible.  God  had  written  a 
Bible,  too.  And  here  she  read  its  pages  and  was  made 
strong  by  it. 

"Signora!" 

Hermione  started  and  turned  her  head. 

"Lucrezia!     What  is  it?" 

"What  time  is  it,  signora?" 

Hermione  looked  at  her  watch. 

"Nearly  eight  o'clock.     An  hour  still  before  supper." 

"I've  got  everything  ready." 

"To-night  we've  only  cold  things,  haven't  we?  You 
made  'us  a  very  nice  collazione.  The  French  signore 
praised  your  cooking,  and  he's  very  particular,  as  French 
people  generally  are.  So  you  ought  to  be  proud  of  your- 
self." 

Lucrezia  smiled,  but  only  for  an  instant.  Then  she 
stood  with  an  anxious  face,  twisting  her  apron. 

"Signora!" 

"Yes?     What  is  it?" 

"Would  you  mind — may  I — " 

She  stopped. 

393 


THE   CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  Why,  Lucrezia,  are  you  afraid  of  me  ?  I've  certain- 
ly been  away  too  long!" 

"No,  no,  signora,  but —  Tears  hung  in  her  eyes. 
"Will  you  let  me  go  away  if  I  promise  to  be  back  by 
nine?" 

"But  you  can't  go  to  Marechiaro  in — " 

"No,  signora.  I  only  want  to  go  to  the  mountain 
over  there  under  Castel  Vecchio.  I  want  to  go  to  the 
Madonna." 

Hermione  took  one  of  the  girl's  hands. 

"To  the  Madonna  della  Rocca?" 

"Si,  signora." 

"I  understand." 

"I  have  a  candle  to  burn  to  the  Madonna.  If  I  go 
now  I  can  be  back  before  nine." 

She  stood  gazing  pathetically,  like  a  big  child,  at  her 
padrona. 

"Lucrezia,"  Hermione  said,  moved  to  a  great  pity  by 
her  own  great  happiness,  "  would  you  mind  if  I  came,  too  ? 
I  think  I  should  like  to  say  a  prayer  for  you  to-night. 
I  am  not  a  Catholic,  but  my  prayer  cannot  hurt  you." 

Lucrezia  suddenly  forgot  distinctions,  threw  her  arms 
round  Hermione,  and  began  to  sob. 

"Hush,  you  must  be  brave!" 

She  smoothed  the  girl's  dark  hair  gently. 

"Have  you  got  your  candle?" 

"Si." 

She  showed  it. 

"Let  us  go  quickly,  then.     Where's  Gaspare?" 

"Close  to  the  house,  signora,  on  the  mountain.  One 
cannot  speak  with  him  to-day." 

"Why  not?" 

"Non  lo  so.     But  he  is  terrible  to-day!" 

So  Lucrezia  had  noticed  Gaspare's  strangeness,  too, 
even  in  the  midst  of  her  sorrow! 

"Gaspare!"  Hermione  called. 

There  was  no  answer. 

394 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Gaspare!" 

She  called  louder. 

"Si,  signora!" 

The  voice  came  from  somewhere  behind  the  house. 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk  with  Lucrezia.  We  shall  be 
back  at  nine.  Tell  the  padrone  if  he  comes." 

"Si,  signora." 

The  two  women  set  out  without  seeing  Gaspare.  They 
walked  in  silence  down  the  mountain -path.  Lucrezia 
held  her  candle  carefully,  like  one  in  a  procession.  She 
was  not  sobbing  now.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes. 
The  companionship  and  the  sympathy  of  her  padrona 
had  given  her  some  courage,  some  hope,  had  taken  away 
from  her  the  desolate  feeling,  the  sensation  of  abandon- 
ment which  had  been  torturing  her.  And  then  she  had 
an  almost  blind  faith  in  the  Madonna  della  Rocca.  And 
the  padrona  was  going  to  pray,  too.  She  was  not  a 
Catholic,  but  she  was  a  lady  and  she  was  good.  The 
Madonna  della  Rocca  must  surely  be  influenced  by  her 
petition. 

So  Lucrezia  plucked  up  a  little  courage.  The  activ- 
ity of  the  walk  helped  her.  She  knew  the  solace  of 
movement.  And  perhaps,  without  being  conscious  of 
it,  she  was  influenced  by  the  soft  beauty  of  the  even- 
ing, by  the  peace  of  the  hills.  But  as  they  crossed  the 
ravine  they  heard  the  tinkle  of  bells,  and  a  procession  of 
goats  tripped  by  them,  following  a  boy  who  was  twitter- 
ing upon  a  flute.  He  was  playing  the  tune  of  the 
tarantella,  that  tune  which  Hermione  associated  with 
careless  joy  in  the  sun.  He  passed  down  into  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  and  gradually  the  airy  rapture  of 
his  fluting  and  the  tinkle  of  the  goat -bells  died  away 
towards  Marechiaro.  Then  Hermione  saw  tears  rolling 
down  over  Lucrezia's  brown  cheeks. 

"He  can't  play  it  like  Sebastiano,  signora!"  she 
said. 

The  little  tune  had  brought  back  all  her  sorrow. 
>6  395 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  soon  hear  Sebastiano  play  it  again," 
said  Hermione. 

They  began  to  climb  upward  on  the  far  side  of  the  ra- 
vine towards  the  fierce  silhouette  of  the  Saracenic  castle 
on  the  height.  Beneath  the  great  crag  on  which  it  was 
perched  was  the  shrine  of  the  Madonna  della  Rocca. 
Night  was  coming  now,  and  the  little  lamp  before  the 
shrine  shone  gently,  throwing  a  ray  of  light  upon  the 
stones  of  the  path.  When  they  reached  it,  Lucrezia 
crossed  herself,  and  they  stood  together  for  a  moment 
looking  at  the  faded  painting  of  the  Madonna,  almost 
effaced  against  its  rocky  background.  Within  the  glass 
that  sheltered  it  stood  vases  of  artificial  flowers,  and  on 
the  ledge  outside  the  glass  were  two  or  three  bunches  of 
real  flowers,  placed  there  by  peasants  returning  to  their 
homes  in  Castel  Vecchio  from  their  labors  in  the  vine- 
yards and  the  orchards.  There  were  also  two  branches 
with  clustering,  red -gold  oranges  lying  among  the  flow- 
ers. It  was  a  strange,  wild  place.  The  precipice  of  rock, 
which  the  castello  dominated,  leaned  slightly  forward 
above  the  head  of  the  Madonna,  as  if  it  meditated  over- 
whelming her.  But  she  smiled  gently,  as  if  she  had  no 
fear  of  it,  bending  down  her  pale  eyes  to  the  child  who 
lay  upon  her  girlish  knees.  Among  the  bowlders,  the 
wild  cactus  showed  its  spiked  leaves,  and  in  the  day- 
time the  long  black  snakes  sunned  themselves  upon  the 
stones. 

To  Hermione  this  lonely  and  faded  Madonna,  smiling 
calmly  beneath  the  savagely  frowning  rock  upon  which 
dead  men  had  built  long  years  ago  a  barbarous  fast- 
ness, was  touching  in  her  solitude.  There  was  some- 
thing appealing  in  her  frailness,  in  her  thin,  anaemic  calm. 
How  long  had  she  been  here?  How  long  would  she 
remain?  She  was  fading  away,  as  things  fade  in  the 
night.  Yet  she  had  probably  endured  for  years,  would 
still  be  here  for  years  to  come,  would  be  here  to  receive 
the  wild  flowers-  of  peasant  children,  the  prayers  of 
396 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

peasant  lovers,  the  adoration  of  the  poor,  who,  having 
very  little  here,  put  their  faith  in  far-off  worlds,  where 
they  will  have  harvests  surely  without  reaping  in  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  where  they  will  have  good  wine  without 
laboring  in  the  vineyards,  where  they  will  be  able  to  rest 
without  the  thought  coming  to  them,  "If  to-day  I  rest, 
to-morrow  I  shall  starve." 

As  Hermione  looked  at  the  painting  lit  by  the  little 
lamp,  at  the  gifts  of  the  flowers  and  the  fruit,  she  began 
to  feel  as  if  indeed  a  woman  dwelt  there,  in  that  niche 
of  the  crag,  as  if  a  heart  were  there,  a  soul  to  pity,  an 
ear  to  listen. 

Lucrezia  knelt  down  quietly,  lit  her  candle,  turned  it 
upside  down  till  the  hot  wax  dripped  onto  the  rock  and 
made  a  foundation  for  it,  then  stuck  it  upright,  crossed 
herself  silently,  and  began  to  pray.  Her  lips  moved 
quickly.  The  candle-flame  flickered  for  a  moment,  then 
burned  steadily,  sending  its  thin  fire  up  towards  the 
evening  star.  After  a  moment  Hermione  knelt  down 
beside  her. 

She  had  never  before  prayed  at  a  shrine.  It  was 
curious  to  be  kneeling  under  this  savage  wall  of  rock 
above  which  the  evening  star  showed  itself  in  the  clear 
heaven  of  night.  She  looked  at  the  star  and  at  the 
Madonna,  then  at  the  little  bunches  of  flowers,  and  at 
Lucrezia's  candle.  Tkese  gifts  of  the  poor  moved  her 
heart.  Poverty  giving  is  beautiful.  She  thought  that, 
and  was  almost  ashamed  of  the  comfort  of  her  life.  She 
wished  she  had  brought  a  candle,  too.  Then  she  bent 
her  head  and  began  to  pray  that  Sebastiano  might  re- 
member Lucrezia  and  return  to  her.  To  make  her 
prayer  more  earnest,  she  tried  to  realize  Lucrezia's  sor- 
row by  putting  herself  in  Lucrezia's  place,  and  Maurice 
in  Sebastiano 's.  It  was  such  a  natural  effort  as  people 
make  every  day,  every  hour.  If  Maurice  had  forgotten 
her  in  absence,  had  given  his  love  to  another,  had  not 
cared  to  return  to  her!  If  she  were  alone  now  in  Sicily 
397 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

while  he  was  somewhere  else,  happy  with  some  one 
else! 

Suddenly  the  wildness  of  this  place  where  she  knelt 
became  terrible  to  her.  She  felt  the  horror  of  solitude, 
of  approaching  darkness.  The  outlines  of  the  rocks  and 
of  the  ruined  castle  looked  threatening,  alarming.  The 
pale  light  of  the  lamp  before  the  shrine  and  of  Lucrezia's 
votive  candle  drew  to  them  not  only  the  fluttering  night- 
moths,  but  the  spirits  of  desolation  and  of  hollow  grief 
that  dwell  among  the  waste  places  and  among  the  hills. 
Night  seemed  no  more  beneficent,  but  dreary  as  a  spectre 
that  came  to  rob  the  world  of  all  that  made  it  beautiful. 
The  loneliness  of  deserted  women  encompassed  her. 
Was  there  any  other  loneliness  comparable  to  it  ? 

She  felt  sure  that  there  was  not,  and  she  found  herself 
praying  not  only  for  Lucrezia,  but  for  all  women  who 
were  sad  because  they  loved,  for  all  women  who  were 
deserted  by  those  whom  they  loved,  or  who  had  lost 
those  whom  they  loved. 

At  first  she  believed  that  she  was  addressing  her 
prayer  to  the  Madonna  della  Rocca,  the  Blessed  Virgin 
of  the  Rocks,  whose  pale  image  was  before  her.  But 
presently  she  knew  that  her  words,  the  words  of  her  lips 
and  the  more  passionate  words  of  her  heart,  were  going 
out  to  a  Being  before  whom  the  sun  burned  as  a  lamp 
and  the  moon  as  a  votive  taper.  She  was  thinking  of 
women,  she  was  praying  for  women,  but  she  was  no 
longer  praying  to  a  woman.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
was  so  ardent  a  suitor  that  she  pushed  past  the  Holy 
Mother  of  God  into  the  presence  of  God  Himself.  He 
had  created  women.  He  had  created  the  love  of  women. 
To  Him  she  would,  she  must,  appeal. 

Often  she  had  prayed  before,  but  never  as  now,  never 
with  such  passion,  with  such  a  sensation  of  personally 
pleading.  The  effort  of  her  heart  was  like  the  effort  of 
womanhood.  It  seemed  to  her — and  she  had  no  feeling 
that  this  was  blasphemous — as  if  God  knew,  understood, 
398 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

everything  of  the  world  He  had  created  except  perhaps 
this — the  inmost  agony  some  women  suffer,  as  if  she, 
perhaps,  could  make  Him  understand  this  by  her  prayer. 
And  she  strove  to  recount  this  agony,  to  make  it  clear  to 
God. 

Was  it  a  presumptuous  effort  ?  She  did  not  feel  that 
it  was.  And  now  she  felt  selfless.  She  was  no  more 
thinking  of  herself,  was  no  longer  obliged  to  concentrate 
her  thoughts  and  her  imagination  upon  herself  and  the 
one  she  loved  best.  She  had  passed  beyond  that,  as  she 
had  passed  beyond  the  Madonna  della  Rocca.  She  was 
the  voice  and  the  heart  not  of  a  woman,  but  of  woman 
praying  in  the  night  to  the  God  who  had  made  woman 
and  the  night. 

From  behind  a  rock  Gaspare  watched  the  two  praying 
women.  He  had  not  forgotten  his  padrone's  words, 
and  when  Hermione  and  Lucrezia  set  off  from  the  cot- 
tage he  had  followed  them,  faithful  to  his  trust.  Intent 
upon  their  errand,  they  had  not  seen  him.  His  step  was 
light  among  the  stones,  and  he  had  kept  at  a  distance. 
Now  he  stood  still,  gazing  at  them  as  they  prayed. 

Gaspare  did  not  believe  in  priests.  Very  few  Sicilians 
do.  An  uncle  of  his  was  a  priest's  son,  and  he  had  other 
reasons,  quite  sufficient  to  his  mind,  for  being  incredulous 
of  the  sanctity  of  those  who  celebrated  the  mass  to  which 
he  seldom  went.  But  he  believed  in  God,  and  he  be- 
lieved superstitiously  in  the  efficacy  of  the  Madonna  and 
in  the  powers  of  the  saints.  Once  his  little  brother  had 
fallen  dangerously  ill  on  the  festa  of  San  Giorgio,  the 
santo  patrono  of  Castel  Vecchio.  He  had  gone  to  the 
festa,  and  had  given  all  his  money,  five  lire,  to  the  saint 
to  heal  his  brother.  Next  day  the  child  was  well.  In 
misfortune  he  would  probably  utter  a  prayer,  or  burn  a 
candle,  himself.  That  Lucrezia  might  think  that  she 
had  reason  to  pray  he  understood,  though  he  doubted 
whether  the  Madonna  and  all  the  saints  could  do  much 
for  the  reclamation  of  his  friend  Sebastiano.  But  why 
399 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

should  the  padrona  kneel  there  out-of-doors  sending  up 
such  earnest  petitions?  She  was  not  a  Catholic.  He 
had  never  seen  her  pray  before.  He  looked  on  with 
wonder,  presently  with  discomfort,  almost  with  anger. 
To-night  he  was  what  he  would  himself  have  called 
"nervoso,"  and  anything  that  irritated  his  already 
strung-up  nerves  roused  his  temper.  He  was  in  anxiety 
about  his  padrone,  and  he  wanted  to  be  back  at  the 
priest's  house,  he  wanted  to  see  his  padrone  again  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment.  The  sight  of  his  padrona 
committing  an  unusual  action  alarmed  him.  Was  she, 
then,  afraid  as  he  was  afraid  ?  Did  she  know,  suspect 
anything  ?  His  experience  of  women  was  that  whenever 
they  were  in  trouble  they  went  for  comfort  and  advice 
to  the  Madonna  and  the  saints. 

He  grew  more  and  more  uneasy.  Presently  he  drew 
softly  a  little  nearer.  It  was  getting  late.  Night  had 
fallen.  He  must  know  the  result  of  the  padrone's  inter- 
view with  Salvatore,  and  he  could  not  leave  the  padrona. 
Well,  then — !  He  crept  nearer  and  nearer  till  at  last  he 
was  close  to  the  shrine  and  could  see  the  Madonna  smil- 
ing. Then  he  crossed  himself  and  said,  softly: 

"Signora!" 

Hermione  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  wrapped  in  the 
passion  of  her  prayer. 

"Signora!" 

He  bent  forward  and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 
She  started,  turned  her  head,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Gaspare!" 

She  looked  startled  This  abrupt  recall  to  the  world 
confused  her  for  a  moment. 

"Gaspare!     What  is  it?     The  padrone?" 

He  took  off  his  cap. 

"Signora,  do  you  know  how  late  it  is ?" 

"Has  the  padrone  come  back?" 

Lucrezia  was  on  her  feet,  too.  The  tears  were  in  her 
eyes. 

400 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Scusi,  signoral"  said  Gaspare. 

Hermione  began  to  look  more  natural. 

"  Has  the  padrone  come  back  and  sent  you  for  us  ?" 

"He  did  not  send  me,  signora.  It  was  getting  dark. 
I  thought  it  best  to  come.  But  I  expect  he  is  back.  I 
expect  he  is  waiting  for  us  now." 

"  You  came  to  guard  me  ?" 

She  smiled.     She  liked  his  watchfulness. 

"What's  the  time?" 

She  looked  at  her  watch. 

"Why,  it  is  nine  already!  We  must  hurry.  Come, 
Lucrezia!" 

They  went  quickly  down  the  path. 

They  did  not  talk  as  they  went.  Gaspare  led  the  way. 
It  was  obvious  that  he  was  in  great  haste.  Sometimes 
he  forgot  that  the  padrona  was  not  so  light-footed  as  he 
was,  and  sprang  on  so  swiftly  that  she  called  to  him  to 
wait.  When  at  last  they  came  in  sight  of  the  arch 
Hermione  and  Lucrezia  were  panting. 

"The  padrone  will — forgive  us — when — he — sees  how 
we  have — hurried,"  said  Hermione,  laughing  at  her  own 
fatigue.  "Go  on,  Gaspare!" 

She  stood  for  a  moment  leaning  against  the  arch. 

"And  you  go  quickly,  Lucrezia,  and  get  the  supper. 
The  padrone — will  be — hungry  after  his  bath." 

"Si,  signora." 

Lucrezia  went  off  to  the  back  of  the  house.  Then 
Hermione  drew  a  long  breath,  recovered  herself,  and 
walked  to  the  terrace. 

Gaspare  met  her  with  naming  eyes. 

"The  padrone  is  not  here,  signora.  The  padrone  has 
not  come  back!" 

He  stood  and  stared  at  her. 

It  was  not  yet  very  dark.  They  stood  in  a  sort  of  soft 
obscurity  in  which  all  objects  could  be  seen,  not  with 
sharp  clearness,  but  distinctly. 

"Are  you  sure,  Gaspare?" 
401 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Si,  signora!  The  padrone  has  not  come  back.  He 
is  not  here." 

The  boy's  voice  sounded  angry,  Hermione  thought. 
It  startled  her.  And  the  way  he  looked  at  her  startled 
her  too. 

"  You  have  looked  in  the  house  ?  Maurice!"  she  called. 
"Maurice!" 

"I  say  the  padrone  is  not  here,  signora!" 

Never  before  had  Gaspare  spoken  to  Hermione  like 
this,  in  a  tone  almost  that  she  ought  to  have  resented. 
She  did  not  resent  it,  but  it  filled  her  with  a  creeping 
uneasiness. 

"What  time  is  it?  Nearly  half-past  nine.  He  ought 
to  be  here  by  now." 

The  boy  nodded,  keeping  his  flaming  eyes  on  her. 

"  I  said  nine  to  give  him  lots  of  time  to  get  cool,  and 
change  his  clothes,  and — it's  very  odd." 

"I  will  go  down  to  the  sea,  signora.     A  rivederci." 

He  swung  round  to  go,  but  Hermione  caught  his  arm. 

"No;  don't  go.  Wait  a  moment,  Gaspare.  Don't 
leave  me  like  this!" 

She  detained  him. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  What  —  what  are  you 
afraid  of?" 

Instantly  there  came  into  his  face  the  ugly,  obstinate 
look  she  had  already  noticed,  and  wondered  at.  that  day. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  Gaspare?"  she  repeated. 

Her  voice  vibrated  with  a  strength  of  feeling  that  as 
yet  she  herself  scarcely  understood. 

"Niente!"  the  boy  replied,  doggedly. 

"Well,  but  then"  —  she  laughed  —  "why  shouldn't 
the  padrone  be  a  few  minutes  late  ?  It  would  be  absurd 
to  go  down.  You  might  miss  him  on  the  way." 

Gaspare  said  nothing.  He  stood  there  with  his  arms 
hanging  and  the  ugly  look  still  on  his  face. 

"Mightn't  you?  Mightn't  you,  Gaspare,  if  he  came 
up  by  Marechiaro  ?" 

402 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

"Si,  signora." 

"Well,  then— " 

They  stood  there  in  silence  for  a  minute.  Hermione 
broke  it. 

"He — you  know  how  splendidly  the  padrone  swims," 
she  said.  "Don't  you,  Gaspare?" 

The  boy  said  nothing. 

"Gaspare,  why  don't  you  answer  when  I  speak  to 
you?" 

"Because  I've  got  nothing  to  say,  signora." 

His  tone  was  almost  rude.  At  that  moment  he  nearly 
hated  Hermione  for  holding  him  by  the  arm.  If  she 
had  been  a  man  he  would  have  struck  her  off  and  gone. 

"Gaspare!"  she  said,  but  not  angrily. 

Her  instinct  told  her  that  he  was  obliged  to  be  utterly 
natural  just  then  under  the  spell  of  some  violent  feeling. 
She  knew  he  loved  his  padrone.  The  feeling  must  be 
one  of  anxiety.  But  it  was  absurd  to  be  so  anxious. 
It  was  ridiculous,  hysterical.  She  said  to  herself  that  it 
was  Gaspare's  excitement  that  was  affecting  her.  She 
was  catching  his  mood. 

"My  dear  Gaspare,"  she  said,  "we  must  just  wait. 
The  padrone  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  Perhaps  he  has 
come  up  by  Marechiaro.  Very  likely  he  has  looked  in  at 
the  hotel  to  see  how  the  sick  signore  is  after  his  day  up 
here.  That  is  it,  I  feel  sure." 

She  looked  at  him  for  agreement  and  met  his  stern 
and  flaming  eyes,  utterly  unmoved  by  what  she  had  said, 
utterly  unconvinced.  At  this  moment  she  could  not 
deny  that  this  untrained,  untutored  nature  had  power 
over  hers.  She  let  go  his  arm  and  sat  down  by  the  wall. 

"Let  us  wait  out  here  for  a  minute,"  she  said. 

"Va  bene,  signora." 

He  stood  there  quite  still,  but  she  felt  as  if  in  this  un- 
natural stillness  there  was  violent  movement,  and  she 
looked  away  from  him.  It  was  fully  night  now.  She 
gazed  down  at  the  ravine.  By  that  way  Ma.urice  would 
403 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

come,  unless  he  really  had  gone  to  Marechiaro  to  see 
Artois.  She  had  suggested  to  Gaspare  that  this  might 
be  the  reason  of  Maurice's  delay,  but  she  knew  that  she 
did  not  think  it  was.  Yet  what  other  reason  could  there 
be?  He  swam  splendidly.  She  said  that  to  herself .  She 
kept  on  saying  it.  Why  ? 

Slowly  the  minutes  crept  by.  The  silence  around 
them  was  intense,  yet  she  felt  no  calm,  no  peace  in  it. 
Like  the  stillness  of  Gaspare  it  seemed  to  be  violent.  It 
began  to  frighten  her.  She  began  to  wish  for  movement, 
for  sound.  Presently  a  light  shone  in  the  cottage. 

"Signora!     Signora!" 

Lucrezia's  voice  was  calling. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

"Supper  is  quite  ready,  signora." 

"The  signore  has  not  come  back  yet.  He  is  a  little 
late." 

Lucrezia  came  to  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"Where  can  the  signore  be,  signora?"  she  said.  "It 
only  takes — " 

Her  voice  died  suddenly  away.  Hermione  looked 
quickly  at  Gaspare,  and  saw  that  he  was  gazing  fero- 
ciously at  Lucrezia  as  if  to  bid  her  be  silent. 

"Gaspare!"  Hermione  said,  suddenly  getting  up. 

"Signora?" 

"I — it's  odd  the  signore's  not  coming." 

The  boy  answered  nothing. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  there  really  has  been  an — an  ac- 
cident." 

She  tried  to  speak  lightly. 

"I  don't  think  he  would  keep  me  waiting  like  this 
if — " 

" I  will  go  down  to  the  sea,"  the  boy  said.  "Signora, 
let  me  go  down  to  the  sea!" 

There  was  a  fury  of  pleading  in  his  voice.  Hermione 
hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Then  she  answered: 

"Yes,  you  shall  go.     Stop,  Gaspare!" 
404 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  had  moved  towards  the  arch. 

"I'm  coming  with  you." 

"You,  signora?" 

"Yes." 

"You  cannot  come!     You  are  not  to  come!" 

He  was  actually  commanding  her — his  padrona. 

"  You  are  not  to  come,  signora!"  he  repeated,  violently. 

"But  I  am  coming,"  she  said. 

They  stood  facing  each  other.  It  was  like  a  battle. 
Gaspare's  manner,  his  words,  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  spoken — all  made  her  understand  that  there  was 
some  sinister  terror  in  his  soul.  She  did  not  ask  what 
it  was.  She  did  not  dare  to  ask.  But  she  said  again : 

"I  am  coming  with  you,  Gaspare." 

He  stared  at  her  and  knew  that  from  that  decision 
there  was  no  appeal.  If  he  went  she  would  accom- 
pany him. 

"Let  us  wait  here,  signora,"  he  said.  "The  padrone 
will  be  coming  presently.  We  had  better  wait  here." 

But  now  she  was  as  determined  on  activity  as  before 
she  had  been — or  seemed — anxious  for  patience. 

"I  am  going,"  she  answered.  "If  you  like  to  let  me 
go  alone  you  can." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  there  was  a  thrill  in  her 
voice.  The  boy  saw  it  was  useless  just  then  to  pit  his 
will  against  hers.  He  dropped  his  head,  and  the  ugly 
look  came  back  to  his  face,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

"  We  shall  be  back  very  soon,  Lucrezia.  We  are  going 
a  little  way  down  to  meet  the  padrone.  Come,  Gaspare!" 

She  spoke  to  him  gently,  kindly,  almost  pleadingly. 
He  made  an  odd  sound.  It  was  not  a  word,  nor  was  it 
a  sob.  She  had  never  heard  anything  like  it  before. 
It  seemed  to  her  to  be  like  a  smothered  outcry  of  a  heart 
torn  by  some  acute  emotion. 

"Gaspare!"  she  said.  "We  shall  meet  him.  We 
shall  meet  him  in  the  ravine!" 

Then  they  set  out.  As  she  was  going,  Hermione  cast 
405 


THE   CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  look  down  towards  the  sea.  Always  at  this  hour, 
when  night  had  come,  a  light  shone  there,  the  light  in 
the  siren's  house.  To-night  that  little  spark  was  not 
kindled.  She  saw  only  the  darkness.  She  stopped. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "there's  no  light!" 

"Signora?" 

She  pointed  over  the  wall. 

"There's  no  light!"  she  repeated. 

This  little  fact — she  did  not  know  why — frightened 
her. 

"Signora,  I  am  going!" 

"Gaspare!"  she  said.  "Give  me  your  hand  to  help 
me  down  the  path.  It's  so  dark.  Isn't  it  ?" 

She  put  out  her  hand.     The  boy's  hand  was  cold. 

They  set  out  towards  the  sea. 


XXI 

THEY  did  not  talk  as  they  went  down  the  steep  moun- 
tain-side, but  when  they  reached  the  entrance  of  the  ra- 
vine Gaspare  stopped  abruptly  and  took  his  cold  hand 
away  from  his  padrona's  hand. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "Let  me  go 
alone!" 

They  were  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  here  and  it  was 
much  darker  than  upon  the  mountain -side.  Hermione 
could  not  see  the  boy's  face  plainly.  She  came  close  up 
to  him. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  alone  ?"  she  asked. 

Without  knowing  it,  she,  too,  spoke  in  an  under-voice. 

"What  is  it  you  are  afraid  of?"  she  added. 

"I  am  not  afraid." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  are.    Your  hand  is  quite  cold." 

"Let  me  go  alone,  signora." 

"No,  Gaspare.  There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  I 
believe.  But  if — if  there  should  have  been  an  accident, 
I  ought  to  be  there.  The  padrone  is  my  husband,  re- 
member." 

She  went  on  and  he  followed  her. 

Hermione  had  spoken  firmly,  even  almost  cheerfully, 
to  comfort  the  boy,  whose  uneasiness  was  surely  greater 
than  the  occasion  called  for.  So  many  little  things  may 
happen  to  delay  a  man.  And  Maurice  might  really  have 
made  the  detour  to  Marechiaro  on  his  way  home.  If  he 
had,  then  they  would  miss  him  by  taking  this  path 
through  the  ravine.  Hermione  knew  that,  but  she  did 
not  hesitate  to  take  it.  She  could  not  remain  inactive 
407 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

to-night.  Patience  was  out  of  her  reach.  It  was  only 
by  making  a  strong  effort  that  she  had  succeeded  in 
waiting  that  short  time  on  the  terrace.  Now  she  could 
wait  no  longer.  She  was  driven.  Although  she  had  not 
yet  sincerely  acknowledged  it  to  herself,  fear  was  grad- 
ually taking  possession  of  her,  a  fear  such  as  she  had 
never  yet  known  or  even  imagined. 

She  had  never  yet  known  or  imagined  such  a  fear. 
That  she  felt.  But  she  had  another  feeling,  contradic- 
tory, surely.  It  began  to  seem  to  her  as  if  this  fear, 
which  was  now  coming  upon  her,  had  been  near  her  for  a 
long  time,  ever  since  the  night  when  she  knew  that  she 
was  going  to  Africa.  Had  she  not  even  expressed  it  to 
Maurice  ? 

Those  beautiful  days  and  nights  of  perfect  happiness 
— can  they  ever  come  again  ?  Had  she  not  thought  that 
many  times  ?  Was  it  not  the  voice  of  this  fear  which 
had  whispered  those  words,  and  others  like  them,  to  her 
mind  ?  And  had  there  not  been  omens  ?  Had  there  not 
been  omens  ? 

She  heard  Gaspare's  feet  behind  her  in  the  ravine,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  tell  by  the  sound  of  them 
upon  the  many  little  loose  stones  that  he  was  wild  with 
impatience,  that  he  was  secretly  cursing  her  for  obliging 
him  to  go  so  slowly.  Had  he  been  alone  he  would  have 
sped  down  with  a  rapidity  almost  like  that  of  travelling 
light.  She  was  strong,  active.  She  was  going  fast. 
Instinctively  she  went  fast.  But  she  was  a  woman,  not 
a  boy. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Gaspare!" 

She  was  saying  that  mentally,  saying  it  again  and 
again,  as  she  hurried  onward. 

Had  there  not  been  omens  ? 

That  last  letter  of  hers,  whose  loss  had  prevented  Mau- 
rice from  meeting  her  on  her  return,  from  welcoming  her! 
When  she  had  reached  the  station  of  Cattaro,  and  had 
not  seen  him  upon  the  platform,  she  had  felt  "I  have 
408 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

lost  him."  Afterwards,  directly  almost,  she  had  laughed 
at  the  feeling  as  absurd.  But  she  had  had  it.  And 
then,  when  at  last  he  had  come,  she  had  been  moved  to 
suggest  that  he  might  like  to  sleep  outside  upon  the 
terrace.  And  he  had  agreed  to  the  suggestion.  They 
had  not  resumed  their  old,  sweet  relation  of  husband  and 
wife. 

Had  there  not  been  omens? 

And  only  an  hour  ago,  scarcely  that,  not  that,  she 
had  knelt  before  the  Madonna  della  Rocca  and  she  had 
prayed,  she  had  prayed  passionately  for  deserted  women, 
for  women  who  loved  and  who  had  lost  those  whom  they 
loved. 

The  fear  was  upon  her  fully  now,  and  she  fully  knew 
that  it  was.  Why  had  she  prayed  for  lonely,  deserted 
women  ?  What  had  moved  her  to  such  a  prayer  ? 

"Was  I  praying  for  myself?" 

At  that  thought  a  physical  weakness  came  to  her, 
and  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  go  on.  By  the  side  of 
the  path,  growing  among  pointed  rocks,  there  was  a 
gnarled  olive-tree,  whose  branches  projected  towards 
her.  Before  she  knew  what  she  was  doing  she  had 
caught  hold  of  one  and  stood  still.  So  suddenly  she  had 
stopped  that  Gaspare,  unprepared,  came  up  against  her 
in  the  dark. 

"Signora!     What  is  the  matter?" 

His  voice  was  surely  angry.  For  a  moment  she  thought 
of  telling  him  to  go  on  alone,  quickly. 

"What  is  it,  signora?" 

"Nothing  —  only  —  I've  walked  so  fast.  Wait  one 
minute!" 

She  felt  the  agony  of  his  impatience,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  treating  him  very  cruelly  to-night. 

"You  know,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  "it's  not  easy  for 
women — this  rough  walking,  I  mean.  We've  got  our 
skirts." 

She  laughed.  How  unnatural,  how  horrible  her  laugh 
409 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

sounded  in  the  darkness!  He  did  not  say  any  more. 
She  knew  he  was  wondering  why  she  had  laughed  like 
that.  After  a  moment  she  let  go  the  branch.  But  her 
legs  were  trembling,  and  she  stumbled  when  she  began 
to  walk  on. 

"Signora,  you  are  tired  already.  You  had  better 
let  me  go  alone." 

For  the  first  time  she  told  him  a  lie. 

"  I  should  be  afraid  to  wait  here  all  by  myself  in  the 
night,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  do  that." 

"  Who  would  come  ?" 

"  I  should  be  frightened." 

She  thought  she  saw  him  look  at  her  incredulously  in 
the  dark,  but  was  not  sure. 

"Be  kind  to  me  to-night,  Gaspare!"  she  said. 

She  felt  a  sudden  passionate  need  of  gentleness,  of 
support,  a  woman's  need  of  sympathy. 

"Won't  you?"  she  added. 

"Signora!"  he  said. 

His  voice  sounded  shocked,  she  thought;  but  in  a 
moment,  when  they  came  to  an  awkward  bit  of  the 
path,  he  put  his  hand  under  her  arm,  and  very  care- 
fully, almost  tenderly,  helped  her  over  it.  Tears  rushed 
into  her  eyes.  For  such  a  small  thing  she  was  crying! 
She  turned  her  head  so  that  Gaspare  should  not  see, 
and  tried  to  control  her  emotion.  That  terrible  ques- 
tion kept  on  returning  to  her  heart. 

"Was  I  praying  for  myself  when  I  prayed  at  the 
shrine  of  the  Maddona  della  Rocca?" 

Hermione  was  gifted,  or  cursed,  with  imagination, 
and  as  she  never  made  use  of  her  imaginative  faculty 
in  any  of  the  arts,  it  was,  perhaps,  too  much  at  the  ser- 
vice of  her  own  life.  In  happiness  it  was  a  beautiful 
handmaid,  helping  her  to  greater  joy,  but  in  unhappy, 
or  in  only  anxious  moments,  it  was,  as  it  usually  is,  a 
cursed  thing.  It  stood  at  her  elbow,  then,  like  a  demon 
full  of  suggestions  that  were  terrible.  With  an  inven- 
410 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

tiveness  that  was  diabolic  it  brought  vividly  before  her 
scenes  to  shake  the  stoutest  courage.  It  painted  the 
future  black.  It  showed  her  the  world  as  a  void.  And 
in  that  void  she  was  as  something  falling,  falling,  yet 
reaching  nothing. 

Now  it  was  with  her  in  the  ravine,  and  as  she  asked 
questions,  terrible  questions,  it  gave  her  terrible  answers. 
And  it  reminded  her  of  other  omens — it  told  her  these 
facts  were  really  omens — which  till  now  she  had  not 
thought  of. 

Why  had  both  she  and  Maurice  been  led  to  think  and 
to  speak  of  death  to-day  ? 

Upon  the  mountain -top  the  thought  of  death  had 
come  to  her  when  she  looked  at  the  glory  of  the  dawn. 
She  had  said  to  Maurice,  "'The  mountains  will  endure' 
— but  we!"  Of  course  it  was  a  truism,  such  a  thing  as 
she  might  say  at  any  time  when  she  was  confronted  by 
the  profound  stability  of  nature.  Thousands  of  people 
had  said  much  the  same  thing  on  thousands  of  occasions. 
Yet  now  the  demon  at  her  elbow  whispered  to  her  that 
the  remark  had  had  a  peculiar  significance.  She  had 
even  said,  "What  is  it  makes  one  think  most  of  death 
when — when  life,  new  life,  is  very  near?" 

Existence  is  made  up  of  loss  and  gain.  New  beings 
rush  into  life  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour.  Birth  is 
about  us,  but  death  is  about  us  too.  And  when  we  are 
given  something,  how  often  is  something  also  taken 
from  us !  Was  that  to  be  her  fate  ? 

And  Maurice — he  had  been  led  to  speak  of  death,  after- 
wards, just  as  he  was  going  away  to  the  sea.  She  re- 
called his  words,  or  the  demon  whispered  them  over  to 
her: 

"'One  can  never  tell  what  will  happen — suppose  one 
of  us  were  to  die  here  ?  Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
good  to  lie  there  where  we  lay  this  afternoon,  under  the 
oak -trees,  in  sight  of  Etna  and  the  sea?  I  think  it 
would." 

»7  411 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

They  were  his  very  last  words,  his  who  was  so  full  of 
life,  who  scarcely  ever  seemed  to  realize  the  possibility 
of  death.  All  through  the  day  death  had  surely  been 
in  the  air  about  them.  She  remembered  her  dream,  or 
quasi-dream.  In  it  she  had  spoken.  She  had  muttered 
an  appeal,  "  Don't  leave  me  alone!"  and  at  another  time 
she  had  tried  to  realize  Maurice  in  England  and  had  failed. 
She  had  felt  as  if  Sicily  would  never  let  him  go.  And 
when  she  had  spoken  her  thought  he  had  hinted  that 
Sicily  could  only  keep  him  by  holding  him  in  arms  of 
earth,  holding  him  in  those  arms  that  keep  the  body  of 
man  forever. 

Perhaps  it  was  ordained  that  her  Sicilian  should  never 
leave  the  island  that  he  loved.  In  all  their  Sicilian  days 
how  seldom  had  she  thought  of  their  future  life  together 
in  England!  Always  she  had  seen  herself  with  Maurice  in 
the  south.  He  had  seemed  to  belong  to  the  south,  and 
she  had  brought  him  to  the  south.  And  now — would 
the  south  let  him  go?  The  thought  of  the  sirens  of 
legend  flitted  through  her  mind.  They  called  men  to 
destruction.  She  imagined  them  sitting  among  the 
rocks  near  the  Casa  della  Sirene,  calling — calling  to  her 
Sicilian. 

Long  ago,  when  she  first  knew  him  well  and  loved  his 
beauty,  she  had  sometimes  thought  of  him  as  a  being 
of  legend.  She  had  let  her  fancy  play  about  him  ten- 
derly, happily.  He  had  been  Mercury,  Endymion,  a 
dancing  faun,  Cupid  vanishing  from  Psyche  as  the  dawn 
came.  And  now  she  let  a  cruel  fancy  have  its  will  for 
a  moment.  She  imagined  the  sirens  calling  among  the 
rocks,  and  Maurice  listening  to  their  summons,  and  going 
to  his  destruction.  The  darkness  of  the  ravine  helped 
the  demon  who  hurried  with  her  down  the  narrow  path, 
whispering  in  her  ears.  But  though  she  yielded  for  a 
time  to  the  nightmare  spell,  common-sense  had  not  ut- 
terly deserted  her,  and  presently  it  made  its  voice  heard. 
She  began  to  say  to  herself  that  in  giving  way  to  such 
412 


THE    CALL    OF    THE   BLOOD 

fantastic  fears  she  was  being  unworthy  of  herself,  al- 
most contemptible.  In  former  times  she  had  never 
been  a  foolish  woman  or  weak.  She  had,  on  the  con- 
trary, been  strong  and  sensible,  although  unconventional 
and  enthusiastic.  Many  people  had  leaned  upon  her, 
even  strong  people.  Artois  was  one.  And  she  had 
never  yet  failed  any  one. 

"I  must  not  fail  myself,"  she  suddenly  thought.  "I 
must  not  be  a  fool  because  I  love." 

She  loved  very  much,  and  she  had  been  separated 
from  her  lover  very  soon.  Her  eagerness  to  return  to 
him  had  been  so  intense  that  it  had  made  her  afraid. 
Yet  she  had  returned,  been  with  him  again.  Her  fear 
in  Africa  that  they  would  perhaps  never  be  together 
again  in  their  Sicilian  home  had  been  groundless.  She 
remembered  how  it  had  often  tormented  her,  especially 
at  night  in  the  dark.  She  had  passed  agonizing  hours, 
for  no  reason.  Her  imagination  had  persecuted  her. 
Now  it  was  trying  to  persecute  her  more  cruelly.  Sud- 
denly she  resolved  not  to  let  it  have  its  way.  Why  was 
she  so  frightened  at  a  delay  that  might  be  explained  in 
a  moment  and  in  the  simplest  manner?  Why  was  she 
frightened  at  all? 

Gaspare's  foot  struck  a  stone  and  sent  it  flying  down 
the  path  past  her. 

Ah!  it  had  been  Gaspare.  His  face,  his  manner,  had 
startled  her,  had  first  inclined  her  to  fear. 

"Gaspare!"  she  said. 

"Si,  signora?" 

"Come  up  beside  me.     There's  room  now." 

The  boy  joined  her. 

"Gaspare,"  she  continued,  "do  you  know  that  when 
we  meet  the  padrone,  you  and  I,  we  shall  look  like  two 
fools?" 

"Meet  the  padrone?"  he  repeated,  sullenly. 

"Yes.  He'll  laugh  at  us  for  rushing  down  like  this. 
He'll  think  we've  gone  quite  mad." 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Silence  was  the  only  response  she  had. 

"Won't  he?"  she  asked. 

"Non  lo  so." 

"Oh,  Gaspare!"  she  exclaimed.  "Don't — don't  be 
like  this  to-night.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  frighten- 
ing me?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?  What  has  been  the 
matter  with  you  all  day?" 

"Niente." 

His  voice  was  hard,  and  he  fell  behind  again. 

Hermione  knew  that  he  was  concealing  something 
from  her.  She  wondered  what  it  was.  It  must  be 
something  surely  in  connection  with  his  anxiety.  Her 
mind  worked  rapidly.  Maurice  —  the  sea  —  bathing — 
Gaspare's  fear  —  Maurice  and  Gaspare  had  bathed  to- 
gether often  while  she  had  been  in  Africa. 

"Gaspare,"  she  said.     "Walk  beside  me — I  wish  it." 

He  came  up  reluctantly. 

"You've  bathed  with  the  padrone  lately?" 

"Si,  signora." 

"Many  times?" 

"Si,  signora." 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  that  he  was  tired  in  the  sea, 
or  afterwards,  or  that  bathing  seemed  to  make  him  ill 
in  any  way?" 

"Tired,  signora?" 

"  You  know  there's  a  thing,  in  English  we  call  it  cramp. 
Sometimes  it  seizes  the  best  swimmers.  It's  a  dreadful 
pain,  I  believe,  and  the  limbs  refuse  to  move.  You've 
never — when  he's  been  swimming  with  you,  the  padrone 
has  never  had  anything  of  that  kind,  has  he  ?  It  wasn't 
that  which  made  you  frightened  this  evening  when  he 
didn't  come?" 

She  had  unwittingly  given  the  boy  the  chance  to 
save  her  from  any  worse  suspicion.  With  Sicilian 
sharpness  he  seized  it.  Till  now  he  had  been  in  a  di- 
414 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

lemma,  and  it  was  that  which  had  made  him  sullen,  al- 
most rude.  His  position  was  a  difficult  one.  He  had 
to  keep  his  padrone's  confidence.  Yet  he  could  not — 
physically  he  could  not — stay  on  the  mountain  when  he 
knew  that  some  tragedy  was  probably  being  enacted, 
or  had  already  been  enacted  by  the  sea.  He  was  de- 
voured by  an  anxiety  which  he  could  not  share  and 
ought  not  to  show  because  it  was  caused  by  the  knowl- 
edge which  he  was  solemnly  pledged  to  conceal.  This 
remark  of  Hermione  gave  him  a  chance  of  shifting  it 
from  the  shoulders  of  the  truth  to  the  shoulders  of  a  lie. 
He  remembered  the  morning  of  sirocco,  his  fear,  his  pas- 
sion of  tears  in  the  boat.  The  memory  seemed  almost  to 
make  the  lie  he  was  going  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Si,  signora.     It  was  that." 

His  voice  was  no  longer  sullen. 

"The  padrone  had  an  attack  like  that?" 

Again  the  terrible  fear  came  back  to  her. 

"Signora,  it  was  one  morning." 

"Used  you  to  bathe  in  the  morning?" 

A  hot  flush  came  in  Gaspare's  face,  but  Hermione  did 
not  see  it  in  the  darkness. 

"Once  we  did,  signora.     We  had  been  fishing." 

"Go  on.     Tell  me!" 

Then  Gaspare  related  the  incident  of  his  padrone's 
sinking  in  the  sea.  Only  he  made  Maurice's  travesty  ap- 
pear a  real  catastrophe.  Hermione  listened  with  pain- 
ful attention.  So  Maurice  had  nearly  died,  had  been  into 
the  jaws  of  death,  while  she  had  been  in  Africa!  Her 
fears  there  had  been  less  ill-founded  than  she  had  thought. 
A  horror  came  upon  her  as  she  heard  Gaspare's  story. 

"And  then,  signora,  I  cried,"  he  ended.     "I  cried." 

"You  cried?" 

"I  thought  I  never  could  stop  crying  again." 

How  different  from  an  English  boy's  reticence  was 
this  frank  confession!  and  yet  what  English  boy  was 
ever  more  manly  than  this  mountain  lad? 
415 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Why — but  then  you  saved  the  padrone's  life!  God 
bless  you!" 

Hermione  had  stopped,  and  she  now  put  her  hand 
on  Gaspare's  arm. 

"Oh,  signora,  there  were  two  of  us.  We  had  the 
boat." 

"But" — another  thought  came  to  her — "but,  Gas- 
pare, after  such  a  thing  as  that,  how  could  you  let  the 
padrone  go  down  to  bathe  alone?" 

Gaspare,  a  moment  before  credited  with  a  faithful 
action,  was  now  to  be  blamed  for  a  faithless  one.  For 
neither  was  he  responsible,  if  strict  truth  were  to  be 
regarded.  But  he  had  insisted  on  saving  his  padrone 
from  the  sea  when  it  was  not  necessary.  And  he  knew 
his  own  faithfulness  and  was  secretly  proud  of  it,  as  a 
good  woman  knows  and  is  proud  of  her  honor.  He  had 
borne  the  praise  therefore.  But  one  thing  he  could  not 
bear,  and  that  was  an  imputation  of  faithlessness  in 
his  stewardship. 

"It  was  not  my  fault,  signora!"  he  cried,  hotly.  "I 
wanted  to  go.  I  begged  to  go,  but  the  padrone  would 
not  let  me." 

"Why  not?" 

Hermione,  peering  in  the  darkness,  thought  she  saw 
the  ugly  look  come  again  into  the  boy's  face. 

"Why  not,  signora?" 

"Yes,  why  not?" 

"He  wished  me  to  stay  with  you.  He  said:  'Stay 
with  the  padrona,  Gaspare.  She  will  be  all  alone.' " 

"Did  he?  Well,  Gaspare,  it  is  not  your  fault.  But 
I  never  thought  it  was.  You  know  that." 

She  had  heard  in  his  voice  that  he  was  hurt. 

"Come!     We  must  go  on!" 

Her  fear  was  now  tangible.     It  had  a  definite  form, 

and  with  every  moment  it  grew  greater  in  the  night, 

towering  over  her,  encompassing  her  about.    For  she  had 

hoped  to  meet  Maurice  coming  up  the  ravine,  and,  with 

416 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

each  moment  that  went  by,  her  hope  of  hearing  his  foot- 
step decreased,  her  conviction  that  something  untoward 
must  have  occurred  grew  more  solid.  Only  once  was 
her  terror  abated.  When  they  were  not  far  from  the 
mouth  of  the  ravine  Gaspare  suddenly  seized  her  arm 
from  behind. 

"Gaspare!     What  is  it?"  she  said,  startled. 

He  held  up  one  hand. 

"Zitta!"  he  whispered. 

Hermione  listened,  holding  her  breath.  It  was  a 
silent  night,  windless  and  calm.  The  trees  had  no 
voices,  the  watercourse  was  dry,  no  longer  musical  with 
the  falling  stream.  Even  the  sea  was  dumb,  or,  if  it 
were  not,  murmured  so  softly  that  these  two  could  not 
hear  it  where  they  stood.  And  now,  in  this  dark  silence, 
they  heard  a  faint  sound.  It  was  surely  a  foot -fall  upon 
stones.  Yes,  it  was. 

By  the  fierce  joy  that  burst  up  in  her  heart  Hermione 
measured  her  previous  fear. 

"It's  he!     It's  the  padrone!" 

She  put  her  face  close  to  Gaspare's  and  whispered  the 
words.  He  nodded.  His  eyes  were  shining. 

"Andiamo!"  he  whispered  back. 

With  a  boy's  impetuosity  he  wished  to  rush  on  and 
meet  the  truant  pilgrim  from  the  sea,  but  Hermione 
held  him  back.  She  could  not  bear  to  lose  that  sweet 
sound,  the  foot-fall  on  the  stones,  coming  nearer  every 
moment. 

"No.  Let's  wait  for  him  here!  Let's  give  him  a 
surprise." 

"Va  bene!" 

His  body  was  quivering  with  suppressed  movement. 
But  they  waited.  The  step  was  slow,  or  so  it  seemed  to 
Hermione  as  she  listened  again,  like  the  step  of  a  tired 
man.  Maurice  seldom  walked  like  that,  she  thought. 
He  was  light-footed,  swift.  His  actions  were  ardent  as 
were  his  eyes.  But  it  must  be  he!  Of  course  it  was  he! 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  was  languid  after  a  long  swim,  and  was  walking  slow- 
ly for  fear  of  getting  hot.  That  must  be  it.  The  walker 
drew  nearer,  the  crunch  of  the  stones  was  louder  under 
his  feet. 

"It  isn't  the  padrone!" 

Gaspare  had  spoken.  All  the  light  had  gone  out  of 
his  eyes. 

"Si!     Si!     It  is  he!" 

Hermione  contradicted  him. 

"No,  signora.     It  is  a  contadino." 

Her  joy  was  failing.  Although  she  contradicted  Gas- 
pare, she  began  to  feel  that  he  was  right.  This  step 
was  heavy,  weary,  an  old  man's  step.  It  could  not  be 
her  Mercury  coming  up  to  his  home  on  the  mountain. 
But  still  she  waited.  Presently  there  detached  itself 
from  the  darkness  a  faint  figure,  bent,  crowned  with  a 
long  Sicilian  cap. 

"  Andiamo!" 

This  time  she  did  not  keep  Gaspare  back.  Without 
a  word  they  went  on.  As  they  came  to  the  figure  it 
stopped.  She  did  not  even  glance  at  it,  but  as  she  went 
by  it  she  heard  an  old,  croaky  voice  say: 

"Benedicite!" 

Never  before  had  the  Sicilian  greeting  sounded  hor- 
rible in  her  ears.  She  did  not  reply  to  it.  She  could 
not.  And  Gaspare  said  nothing.  They  hastened  on 
in  silence  till  they  reached  the  high-road  by  Isola  Bella, 
the  road  where  Maurice  had  met  Maddalena  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  fair. 

It  was  deserted.  The  thick  white  dust  upon  it  looked 
ghastly  at  their  feet.  Now  they  could  hear  the  faint 
and  regular  murmur  of  the  oily  sea  by  which  the  fisher- 
men's boats  were  drawn  up,  and  discern,  far  away  on 
the  right,  the  serpentine  lights  of  Cattaro. 

"Where  do  you  go  to  bathe?"  Hermione  asked,  al- 
ways speaking  in  a  hushed  voice.  "Here,  by  Isola 
Bella  ?" 

418 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  looked  down  at  the  rocks  of  the  tiny  island,  at 
the  dimness  of  the  spreading  sea.  Till  now  she  had 
always  gloried  in  its  beauty,  but  to-night  it  looked  to 
her  mysterious  and  cruel. 

"No,  signora." 

"Where  then?" 

"  Farther  on — a  little.     I  will  go." 

His  voice  was  full  of  hesitation.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  do. 

"Please,  signora,  stay  here.  Sit  on  the  bank  by  the 
line.  I  will  go  and  be  back  in  a  moment.  I  can  run. 
It  is  better.  If  you  come  we  shall  take  much  longer." 

"Go,  Gaspare!"  she  said.  "But — stop — where  do 
you  bathe  exactly?" 

"Quite  near,  signora." 

"In  that  little  bay  underneath  the  promontory  where 
the  Casa  delle  Sirene  is?" 

"Sometimes  there  and  sometimes  farther  on  by  the 
caves.  A  rivederla!" 

The  white  dust  flew  up  from  the  road  as  he  disap- 
peared. 

Hermione  did  not  sit  down  on  the  bank.  She  had 
never  meant  to  wait  by  Isola  Bella,  but  she  let  him  go 
because  what  he  had  said  was  true,  and  she  did  not 
wish  to  delay  him.  If  anything  serious  had  occurred 
every  moment  might  be  valuable.  After  a  short  pause 
she  followed  him.  As  she  walked  she  looked  continually 
at  the  sea.  Presently  the  road  mounted  and  she  came 
in  sight  of  the  sheltered  bay  in  which  Maurice  had  heard 
Maddalena's  cry  when  he  was  fishing.  A  stone  wall 
skirted  the  road  here.  Some  twenty  feet  below  was 
the  railway  line  laid  on  a  bank  which  sloped  abruptly 
to  the  curving  beach.  She  leaned  her  hands  upon  the 
wall  and  looked  down,  thinking  she  might  see  Gaspare. 
But  he  was  not  there.  The  dark,  still  sea,  protected  by 
the  two  promontories,  and  by  an  islet  "of  rock  in  the 
middle  of  the  bay,  made  no  sound  here.  It  lay  motion- 
419 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

less  as  a  pool  in  a  forest  under  the  stars.  To  the  left 
the  jutting  land,  with  its  turmoil  of  jagged  rocks,  was  a 
black  mystery.  As  she  stood  by  the  wall,  Hermione 
felt  horribly  lonely,  horribly  deserted.  She  wished  she 
had  not  let  Gaspare  go.  Yet  she  dreaded  his  return. 
What  might  he  have  to  tell  her?  Now  that  she  was 
here  by  the  sea  she  felt  how  impossible  it  was  for  Mau- 
rice to  have  been  delayed  upon  the  shore.  For  there 
was  no  one  here.  The  fishermen  were  up  in  the  village. 
The  contadini  had  long  since  left  their  work.  No  one 
passed  upon  the  road.  There  was  nothing,  there  could 
have  been  nothing  to  keep  a  man  here.  She  felt  as  if 
it  were  already  midnight,  the  deepest  hour  of  darkness 
and  of  silence. 

As  she  took  her  hands  from  the  wall,  and  turned  to 
go  on  up  the  hill  to  the  point  which  commanded  the 
open  sea  and  the  beginning  of  the  Straits  of  Messina, 
she  was  terrified.  Suspicion  was  hardening  into  cer- 
tainty. Something  dreadful  must  have  happened  to 
Maurice. 

Her  legs  had  begun  to  tremble  again.  All  her  body 
felt  weak  and  incapable,  like  the  body  of  an  old  person 
whose  life  was  drawing  to  an  end.  The  hill,  not  very 
steep,  faced  her  like  a  precipice,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  would  not  be  able  to  mount  it.  In  the  road 
the  deep  dust  surely  clung  to  her  feet,  refusing  to  let 
her  lift  them.  And  she  felt  sick  and  contemptible,  no 
longer  her  own  mistress  either  physically  or  mentally. 
The  voices  within  her  that  strove  to  whisper  common- 
places of  consolation,  saying  that  Maurice  had  gone  to 
Marechiaro,  or  that  he  had  taken  another  path  home,  not 
the  path  from  Isola  Bella,  brought  her  no  comfort. 
The  thing  within  her  soul  that  knew  what  she,  the  hu- 
man being  containing  it,  did  not  know,  told  her  that 
her  terror  had  its  reason,  that  she  was  not  suffering  in 
this  way  without  cause.  It  said,  "Your  terror  is  jus- 
tified." 

420 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

At  last  she  was  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  could  see 
vaguely  the  shore  by  the  caves  where  the  fishermen  had 
slept  in  the  dawn.  To  her  right  was  the  path  which 
led  to  the  wall  of  rock  connecting  the  Sirens'  Isle  with 
the  main -land.  She  glanced  at  it,  but  did  not  think  of 
following  it.  Gaspare  must  have  followed  the  descend- 
ing road.  He  must  be  down  there  on  that  beach  search- 
ing, calling  his  padrone's  name,  perhaps.  She  began 
to  descend  slowly,  still  physically  distressed.  True  to 
her  fixed  idea  that  if  there  had  been  a  disaster  it  must 
be  connected  with  the  sea,  she  walked  always  close 
to  the  wall,  and  looked  always  down  to  the  sea. 
Within  a  short  time,  two  or  three  minutes,  she  came 
in  sight  of  the  lakelike  inlet,  a  miniature  fiord  which 
lay  at  the  feet  of  the  woods  where  hid  the  Casa  delle 
Sirene.  The  water  here  looked  black  like  ebony.  She 
stared  down  at  it  and  saw  a  boat  lying  on  the  shore. 
Then  she  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  trees  opposite  from 
which  always,  till  to-night,  had  shone  the  lamp  which  she 
and  Maurice  had  seen  from  the  terrace.  All  was  dark. 
The  thickly  growing  trees  did  not  move.  '  Secret  and 
impenetrable  seemed  to  her  the  hiding-place  they  made. 
She  could  scarcely  imagine  that  any  one  lived  among 
them.  Yet  doubtless  the  inhabitants  of  the  Casa  delle 
Sirene  were  sleeping  quietly  there  while  she  wandered 
on  the  white  road  accompanied  by  her  terror. 

She  had  stopped  for  a  minute,  and  was  just  going  to 
walk  on,  when  she  heard  a  sound  that,  though  faint 
and  distant,  was  sharp  and  imperative.  It  seemed  to 
her  to  be  a  violent  beating  on  wood,  and  it  was  followed 
by  the  calling  of  a  voice.  She  waited.  The  sound  died 
away.  She  listened,  straining  her  ears.  In  this  abso- 
lutely still  night  sound  travelled  far.  At  first  she  had 
no  idea  from  what  direction  came  this  noise  which  had 
startled  her.  But  almost  immediately  it  was  repeated, 
and  she  knew  that  it  must  be  some  one  striking  violent- 
ly and  repeatedly  upon  wood — probably  a  wooden  door. 
421 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Then  again  the  call  rang  out.  This  time  she  recog- 
nized, or  thought  she  recognized,  Gaspare's  voice  raised 
angrily,  fiercely,  in  a  summons  to  some  one.  She  looked 
across  the  ebon  water  at  the  ebon  mass  of  the  trees  on 
its  farther  side,  and  realized  swiftly  that  Gaspare  must 
be  there.  He  had  gone  to  the  only  house  between  the 
two  bathing-places  to  ask  if  its  inhabitants  had  seen 
anything  of  the  padrone. 

This  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  very  natural  and  intelligent 
action,  and  she  waited  eagerly  and  watched,  hoping  to 
see  a  light  shine  out  as  Salvatore — yes,  that  had  been 
the  name  told  to  her  by  Gaspare — as  Salvatore  got  up 
from  sleep  and  came  to  open.  He  might  know  some- 
thing, know  at  least  at  what  hour  Maurice  had  left  the 
sea. 

Again  came  the  knocking  and  the  call,  again — four, 
five  times.  Then  there  was  a  long  silence.  Always  the 
darkness  reigned,  unbroken  by  the  earth-bound  star,  the 
light  she  looked  for.  The  silence  began  to  seem  to  her 
interminable.  At  first  she  thought  that  perhaps  Gas- 
pare was  having  a  colloquy  with  the  owner  of  the  house, 
was  learning  something  of  Maurice.  But  presently  she 
began  to  believe  that  there  could  be  no  one  in  the  house, 
and  that  he  had  realized  this.  If  so,  he  would  have  to 
return  either  to  the  road  or  the  beach.  She  could  see 
no  boat  moored  to  the  shore  opposite.  He  would  come 
by  the  wall  of  rock,  then,  unless  he  swam  the  inlet.  She 
went  back  a  little  way  to  a  point  from  which  dimly  she 
saw  the  wall,  and  waited  there  a  few  minutes.  Surely 
it  would  be  dangerous  to  traverse  that  wall  on  such  a 
dark  night!  Now,  to  her  other  fear  was  added  fear  for 
Gaspare.  If  an  accident  were  to  happen  to  him!  Sud- 
denly she  hastened  back  to  the  path  which  led  from 
the  high-road  along  the  spit  of  cultivated  land  to  the 
wall,  turned  from  the  road,  traversed  the  spit,  and  went 
down  till  she  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  wall.  She  looked 
at  the  black  rock,  the  black  sea  that  lay  motionless  far 
422 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

down  on  either  side  of  it.  Surely  Gaspare  would  not 
venture  to  come  this  way.  It  seemed  to  her  that  to 
do  so  would  mean  death,  or,  if  not  that,  a  dangerous 
fall  into  the  sea — and  probably  there  were  rocks  below, 
hidden  under  the  surface  of  the  water.  But  Gaspare 
was  daring.  She  knew  that.  He  was  as  active  as  a 
cat  and  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  fear  for  his  own 
safety.  He  might — 

Out  of  the  darkness  on  the  land  beyond  the  wall, 
something  came,  the  form  of  some  one  hurrying. 

"Gaspare!" 

The  form  stopped. 

"Gaspare!" 

"Signora!     What  are  you  doing  here?     Madonna!" 

"Gaspare,  don't  come  this  way!  You  are  not  to  come 
this  way." 

"Why  are  you  here,  signora?  I  told  you  to  wait  for 
me  by  Isola  Bella." 

The  startled  voice  was  hard. 

"You  are  not  to  cross  the  wall.     I  won't  have  it." 

"The  wall — it  is  nothing,  signora.  I  have  crossed  it 
many  times.  It  is  nothing  for  a  man." 

"In  the  day,  perhaps,  but  at  night — don't,  Gaspare 
— d'you  hear  me? — you  are  not — " 

She  stopped,  holding  her  breath,  for  she  saw  him  com- 
ing lightly,  poised  on  bare  feet,  straight  as  an  arrow, 
and  balancing  himself  with  his  out-stretched  arms. 

"Ah!" 

She  had  shrieked  out.  Just  as  he  was  midway  Gas- 
pare had  looked  down  at  the  sea — the  open  sea  on  the 
far  side  of  the  wall.  Instantly  his  foot  slipped,  he  lost 
his  balance  and  fell.  She  thought  he  had  gone,  but  he 
caught  the  wall  with  his  hands,  hung  for  a  moment 
suspended  above  the  sea,  then  raised  himself,  as  a  gym- 
nast does  on  a  parallel  bar,  slowly  till  his  body  was 
above  the  wall.  Then — Hermione  did  not  know  how — 
he  was  beside  her. 

423 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  caught  hold  of  him  with  both  hands.  She  felt 
furiously  angry. 

"How  dare  you  disobey  me?"  she  said,  panting  and 
trembling.  "How  dare  you— r-" 

But  his  eyes  silenced  her.  She  broke  off,  staring  at 
him.  All  the  healthy  color  had  left  his  face.  There 
was  a  leaden  hue  upon  it. 

"Gaspare — are  you — you  aren't  hurt — you — " 

"Let  me  go,  signora!     Let  me  go!" 

She  let  him  go  instantly. 

"What  is  it?     Where  are  you  going?" 

He  pointed  to  the  beach. 

"To  the  boat.  There's — down  there  in  the  water — 
there's  something  in  the  water!" 

"Something?"  she  said. 

"Wait  in  the  road." 

He  rushed  away  from  her,  and  she  heard  him  saying: 
"Madonna!  Madonna!  Madonna!" — crying  it  out  as 
he  ran. 

Something  in  the  water!  She  felt  as  if  her  heart  stood 
still  for  a  century,  then  at  last  beat  again  somewhere 
up  in  her  throat,  choking  her.  Something — could  Gas- 
pare have  seen  what  ?  She  moved  on  a  step.  One  of  her 
feet  was  on  the  wall,  the  other  still  on  the  firm  earth. 
She  leaned  down  and  tried  to  look  over  into  the  sea  be- 
yond, the  sea  close  to  the  wall.  But  her  head  swam. 
Had  she  not  moved  back  hastily,  obedient  to  an  im- 
perious instinct  of  self-preservation,  she  would  have 
fallen.  She  sat  down,  there  where  she  had  been  stand- 
ing, and  dropped  her  face  into  her  hands  close  to  her 
knees,  and  kept  quite  still.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  in 
a  train  going  through  a  tunnel.  Her  ears  were  full  of 
a  roaring  clamor.  How  long  she  sat  and  heard  tumult 
she  did  not  know.  When  she  looked  up  the  night  seem- 
ed to  her  to  be  much  darker  than  before,  intensely 
dark.  Yet  all  the  stars  were  there  in  the  sky.  .No 
clouds  had  come  to  hide  them.  She  tried  to  get  up 
424 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

quickly,  but  there  was  surely  something  wrong  with 
her  body.  It  would  not  obey  her  will  at  first.  Pres- 
ently she  lay  down,  turned  over  on  her  side,  put  both 
hands  on  the  ground,  and  with  an  effort,  awkward  as 
that  of  a  cripple,  hoisted  herself  up  and  stood  on  her 
feet.  Gaspare  had  said,  "Wait  in  the  road."  She 
must  find  the  road.  That  was  what  she  must  do. 

"Wait  in  the  road — wait  in  the  road."  She  kept  on 
saying  that  to  herself.  But  she  could  not  remember  for 
a  moment  where  the  road  was.  She  could  only  think  of 
rock,  of  water  black  like  ebony.  The  road  was  white. 
She  must  look  for  something  white.  And  when  she 
found  it  she  must  wait.  Presently,  while  she  thought 
she  was  looking,  she  found  that  she  was  walking  in  the 
dust.  It  flew  up  into  her  nostrils,  dry  and  acrid.  Then 
she  began  to  recover  herself  and  to  realize  more  clearly 
what  she  was  doing. 

She  did  not  know  yet.  She  knew  nothing  yet.  The 
night  was  dark,  the  sea  was  dark.  Gaspare  had  only 
cast  one  swift  glance  down  before  his  foot  had  slipped. 
It  was  impossible  that  he  could  have  seen  what  it  was 
that  was  there  in  the  water.  And  she  was  always  in- 
clined to  let  her  imagination  run  riot.  God  isn't  cruel. 
She  had  said  that  under  the  oak-trees,  and  it  was  true. 
It  must  be  true. 

"I've  never  done  God  any  harm,"  she  was  saying  to 
herself  now.  "I've  never  meant  to.  I've  always  tried 
to  do  the  right  thing.  God  knows  that!  God  wouldn't 
be  cruel  to  me." 

In  this  moment  all  the  subtlety  of  her  mind  deserted 
her,  all  that  in  her  might  have  been  called  "cleverness." 
She  was  reduced  to  an  extraordinary  simplicity  like 
that  of  a  child,  or  a  very  instinctive,  uneducated  person. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  bad,"  she  thought.  "And  God — 
He  isn't  bad.  He  wouldn't  wish  to  hurt  me.  He 
wouldn't  wish  to  kill  me." 

She  was  walking  on  mechanically  while  she  thought 
425 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

this,  but  presently  she  remembered  again  that  Gaspare 
had  told  her  to  wait  in  the  road.  She  looked  over  the 
wall  down  to  the  narrow  strip  of  beach  that  edged  the 
inlet  between  the  main-land  and  the  Sirens'  Isle.  The 
boat  which  she  had  seen  there  was  gone.  Gaspare  had 
taken  it.  She  stood  staring  at  the  place  where  the  boat 
had  been.  Then  she  sought  a  means  of  descending  to 
that  strip  of  beach.  She  would  wait  there.  A  little 
lower  down  the  road  some  of  the  masonry  of  the  wall 
had  been  broken  away,  perhaps  by  a  winter  flood,  and 
at  this  point  there  was  a  faint  track,  trodden  by  fisher- 
men's feet,  leading  down  to  the  line.  Hermione  got  over 
the  wall  at  this  point  and  was  soon  on  the  beach,  stand- 
ing almost  on  the  spot  where  Maurice  had  stripped  off 
his  clothes  in  the  night  to  seek  the  voice  that  had  cried 
out  to  him  in  the  darkness.  She  waited  here.  Gaspare 
would  presently  come  back.  His  arms  were  strong.  He 
could  row  fast.  She  would  only  have  to  wait  a  few 
minutes.  In  a  few  minutes  she  would  know.  She 
strained  her  eyes  to  catch  sight  of  the  boat  rounding 
the  promontory  as  it  returned  from  the  open  sea.  At 
first  she  stood,  but  presently,  as  the  minutes  went  by 
and  the  boat  did  not  come,  her  sense  of  physical  weak- 
ness returned  and  she  sat  down  on  the  stones  with  her 
feet  almost  touching  the  water. 

"Gaspare  knows  now,"  she  thought.  "I  don't  know, 
but  Gaspare  knows." 

That  seemed  to  her  strange,  that  any  one  should  know 
the  truth  of  this  thing  before  she  did.  For  what  did  it 
matter  to  any  one  but  her  ?  Maurice  was  hers — was  so 
absolutely  hers  that  she  felt  as  if  no  one  else  had  any 
concern  in  him.  He  was  Gaspare's  padrone.  Gaspare 
loved  him  as  a  Sicilian  may  love  his  padrone.  Others 
in  England,  too,  loved  him — his  mother,  his  father.  But 
what  was  any  love  compared  with  the  love  of  the  one 
woman  to  whom  he  belonged.  His  mother  had  her  hus- 
band. Gaspare— he  was  a  boy.  He  would  love  some 
.  426 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

girl  presently;  he  would  marry.  No,  she  was  right.  The 
truth  about  that  "something  in  the  water"  only  con- 
cerned her.  God's  dealing  with  this  creature  of  his  to- 
night only  really  mattered  to  her. 

As  she  waited,  pressing  her  hands  on  the  stones  and 
looking  always  at  the  point  of  the  dark  land  round 
which  the  boat  must  come,  a  strange  and  terrible  feel- 
ing came  to  her,  a  feeling  that  she  knew  she  ought  to 
drive  out  of  her  soul,  but  that  she  was  powerless  to  expel. 

She  felt  as  if  at  this  moment  God  were  on  His  trial 
before  her — before  a  poor  woman  who  loved. 

"If  God  has  taken  Maurice  from  me,"  she  thought, 
"  He  is  cruel,  frightfully  cruel,  and  I  cannot  love  Him. 
If  He  has  not  taken  Maurice  from  me,  He  is  the  God 
who  is  love,  the  God  I  can,  I  must  worship!" 

Which  God  was  he  ? 

The  vast  scheme  of  the  world  narrowed;  the  wide 
horizons  vanished.  There  was  nothing  beyond  the  limit 
of  her  heart.  She  felt,  as  almost  all  believing  human 
beings  feel  in  such  moments,  that  God's  attention  was 
entirely  concentrated  upon  her  life,  that  no  other  claimed 
His  care,  begged  for  His  pity,  demanded  His  tenderness 
because  hers  was  so  intense. 

Did  God  wish  to  lose  her  love  ?  Surely  not !  Then 
He  could  not  commit  this  frightful  act  which  she  feared. 
He  had  not  committed  it. 

A  sort  of  relief  crept  through  her  as  she  thought  this. 
Her  agony  of  apprehension  was  suddenly  lessened,  was 
almost  driven  out. 

God  wants  to  be  loved  by  the  beings  He  has  created. 
Then  He  would  not  deliberately,  arbitrarily  destroy  a 
love  already  existing  in  the  heart  of  one  of  them — a  love 
thankful  to  Him,  enthusiastically  grateful  for  happiness 
bestowed  by  Him. 

Beyond  the  darkness  of  the  point  there  came  out  of 
the  dimness  of  the  night  that  brooded  above  the  open 
sea  a  moving  darkness,  and  Hermione  heard  the  splash 
*s  427 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

of  oars  in  the  calm  water.  She  got  up  quickly.  Now 
her  body  was  trembling  again.  She  stared  at  the  boat 
as  if  she  would  force  it  to  yield  its  secret  to  her  eyes. 
But  that  was  only  for  an  instant.  Then  her  ears  seemed 
to  be  seeking  the  truth,  seeking  it  from  the  sound  of  the 
oars  in  the  water! 

There  was  no  rhythmic  regularity  in  the  music  they 
made,  no  steadiness,  no — no — . 

She  listened  passionately,  instinctively  bending  down 
her  head  sideways.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  lis- 
tening to  a  drunken  man  rowing.  Now  there  was  a  quick 
beating  of  the  oars  in  the  water,  then  silence,  then  a 
heavy  splash  as  if  one  of  the  oars  had  escaped  from  an 
uncertain  hand,  then  some  uneven  strokes,  one  oar 
striking  the  water  after  the  other. 

"But  Gaspare  is  a  contadino,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"not  a  fisherman.  Gaspare  is  a  contadino  and — " 

"Gaspare!"  she  called  out.     "Gaspare!" 

The  boat  stopped  midway  in  the  mouth  of  the  inlet. 

"Gaspare!     Is  it  you?" 

She  saw  a  dark  figure  standing  up  in  the  boat. 

"Gaspare,  is  it  you?"  she  cried,  more  loudly. 

"Si." 

Was  it  Gaspare's  voice?  She  did  not  recognize  it. 
Yet  the  voice  had  answered  "Yes."  The  boat  still  re- 
mained motionless  on  the  water  midway  between  shore 
and  shore.  She  did  not  speak  again ;  she  was  afraid  to 
speak.  She  stood  and  stared  at  the  boat  and  at  the 
motionless  figure  standing  up  in  it.  Why  did  not  he 
row  in  to  land  ?  What  was  he  doing  there  ?  She  stared 
at  the  boat  and  at  the  figure  standing  in  it  till  she  could 
see  nothing.  Then  she  shut  her  eyes. 

"  Gaspare!"  she  called,  keeping  her  eyes  shut.  "  What 
are  you  doing?  Gaspare!" 

There  was  no  reply. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  now  she  could  see  the  boat 
again  and  the  rower. 

428 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Gaspare!"  she  cried,  with  all  her  strength,  to  the 
black  figure.  "  Why  don't  you  row  to  the  shore  ?  Why 
don't  you  come  to  me  ?" 

"  Vengo!" 

Loudly  the  word  came  to  her,  loudly  and  sullenly  as 
if  the  boy  were  angry  with  her,  almost  hated  her.  It 
was  followed  by  a  fierce  splash  of  oars.  The  boat  shot 
forward,  coming  straight  towards  her.  Then  suddenly 
the  oars  ceased  from  moving,  the  dark  figure  of  the 
rower  fell  down  in  a  heap,  and  she  heard  cries,  like  cries 
of  despair,  and  broken  exclamations,  and  then  a  long 
sound  of  furious  weeping. 

' '  Gaspare !     Gaspare ! ' ' 

Her  voice  was  strangled  in  her  throat  and  died  away. 

"And  then,  signora,  I  cried; — I  cried!" 

When  had  Gaspare  said  that  to  her?  And  why  had 
he  cried? 

"Gaspare!" 

It  came  from  her  lips  in  a  whisper  almost  inaudible 
to  herself. 

Then  she  rushed  forward  into  the  dark  water. 


XXII 

LATE  that  night  Dr.  Marini,  the  doctor  of  the  com- 
mune of  Marechiaro,  was  roused  from  sleep  in  his  house 
in  the  Corso  by  a  violent  knocking  on  his  street  door. 
He  turned  over  in  his  bed,  muttered  a  curse,  then  lay 
still  for  a  moment  and  listened.  The  knocking  was  re- 
newed more  violently.  Evidently  the  person  who  stood 
without  was  determined  to  gain  admission.  There  was 
no  help  for  it.  The  good  doctor,  who  was  no  longer 
young,  dropped  his  weary  legs  to  the  floor,  walked  across 
to  the  open  window,  and  thrust  his  head  out  of  it.  A 
man  was  standing  below. 

"What  is  it?  What  do  you  want?"  said  the  doctor, 
in  a  grumbling  voice.  "  Is  it  another  baby  ?  Upon  my 
word,  these — " 

"Signor  Dottore,  come  down,  come  down  instantly! 
The  signore  of  Monte  Amato,  the  signore  of  the  Casa 
del  Prete  has  had  an  accident.  You  must  come  at  once. 
I  will  go  to  fetch  a  donkey." 

The  doctor  leaned  farther  out  of  the  window. 

"An  accident!     What — ?" 

But  the  man,  a  fisherman  of  Marechiaro,  was  already 
gone,  and  the  doctor  saw  only  the  narrow,  deserted 
street,  black  with  the  shadows  of  the  tall  houses. 

He  drew  in  quickly  and  began  to  dress  himself  with 
some  expedition.  An  accident,  and  to  a  forestiere! 
There  would  be  money  in  this  case.  He  regretted  his 
lost  sleep  less  now  and  cursed  no  more,  though  he 
thought  of  the  ride  up  into  the  mountains  with  a  good 
deal  of  self-pity.  It  was  no  joke  to  be  a  badly  paid 
43° 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Sicilian  doctor,  he  thought,  as  he  tugged  at  his  trousers 
buttons,  and  fastened  the  white  front  that  covered  the 
breast  of  his  flannel  shirt,  and  adjusted  the  cuffs  which 
he  took  out  of  a  small  drawer.  Without  lighting  a 
candle  he  went  down -stairs,  fumbled  about,  and  found 
his  ease  of  instruments.  Then  he  opened  the  street 
door  and  waited,  yawning  on  the  stone  pavement.  In 
two  or  three  minutes  he  heard  the  tripping  tip-tap  of  a 
donkey's  hoofs,  and  the  fisherman  came  up  leading  a 
donkey  apparently  as  disinclined  for  a  nocturnal  flitting 
as  the  doctor. 

"Ah,  Giuseppe,  it's  you,  is  it?" 

"Si,  Signer  Dottore!" 

"What's  this  accident?" 

The  fisherman  looked  grave  and  crossed  himself. 

"Oh,  signore,  it  is  terrible!  They  say  the  poor  sig- 
nore  is  dead!" 

"Dead!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  startled.  "You  said 
is  was  an  accident.  Dead  you  say  now?" 

"Signore,  he  is  dead  beyond  a  doubt.  I  was  going  to 
the  fishing  when  I  heard  dreadful  cries  in  the  water  by 
the  inlet — you  know,  by  Salvatore's  terrene!" 

"In  the  water?" 

"Si,  signore.  I  went  down  quickly  and  I  found  Gas- 
pare, the  signore's — 

"I  know — I  know!" 

"  Gaspare  in  a  boat  with  the  padrone  lying  at  the  bot- 
tom, and  the  signora  standing  up  to  her  middle  in  the 
sea." 

"Z't!  z't!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "the  signora  in  the 
sea!  Is  she  mad  ?" 

"Signor  Dottore,  how  do  I  know?  I  brought  the 
boat  to  shore.  Gaspare  was  like  one  crazed.  Then  we 
lifted  the  signore  out  upon  the  stones.  Oh,  he  is  dead, 
Signor  Dottore;  dead  beyond  a  doubt.  They  had  found 
him  in  the  sea — " 

"They?" 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Gaspare — under  the  rocks  between  Salvatore's  ter- 
reno  and  the  main-land.  He  had  all  his  clothes  on.  He 
must  have  been  there  in  the  dark — " 

"Why  should  he  go  in  the  dark?" 

"How  do  I  know,  Signer  Dottore? — and  have  fallen, 
and  struck  his  head  against  the  rocks.  For  there  was 
a  wound  and — " 

"The  body  should  not  have  been  moved  from  where 
it  lay  till  the  Pretore  had  seen  it.  Gaspare  should  have 
left  the  body." 

"But  perhaps  the  povero  signore  is  not  really  dead, 
after  all!  Madonna!  How—" 

"Come!  come!  we  must  not  delay!  One  minute!  I 
will  get  some  lint  and — ' 

He  disappeared  into  the  house.  Almost  directly  he 
came  out  again  with  a  package  under  his  arm  and  a 
long,  black  cigar  lighted  in  his  mouth. 

"Take  these,  Giuseppe!  Carry  them  carefully.  Now 
then!" 

He  hoisted  himself  onto  the  donkey. 

"A-ah!    A-ah!" 

They  set  off,  the  fisherman  walking  on  naked  feet  be- 
side the  donkey. 

"Then  we  have  to  go  down  to  the  sea?" 

"No,  Signer  Dottore.  There  were  others  on  the  road, 
Antonio  and — " 

"  The  rest  of  you  going  to  the  boats — I  know.     Well  ?" 

"  And  the  signora  would  have  him  carried  up  to  Monte 
Amato." 

"She  could  give  directions?" 

"Si,  signore.  She  ordered  everything.  When  she 
came  out  of  the  sea  she  was  all  wet,  the  poor  signora, 
but  she  was  calm.  I  called  the  others.  When  they  saw 
the  signore  they  all  cried  out.  They  knew  him.  Some 
of  them  had  been  to  the  fishing  with  him.  Oh,  they 
were  sorry!  They  all  began  to  speak  and  to  try  to — " 

"Diavolo!  They  could  only  make  things  worse!  If 
432 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

the  breath  of  life  was  in  the  signore's  body  they  would 
drive  it  out.  Per  Die!" 

"But  the  signora  stopped  them.  She  told  them  to 
be  silent  and  to  carry  the  signore  up  to  the  Casa  del 
Prete.  Signore,  she — the  povera  signora — she  took  his 
head  in  her  hands.  She  held  his  head  and  she  never 
cried,  not  a  tearl" 

The  man  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"Povera  signora!  Povera  signora!"  murmured  the 
doctor. 

"And  she  comforted  Gaspare,  too!"  Giuseppe  added. 
"  She  put  her  arm  round  him  and  told  him  to  be  brave 
and  help  her.  She  made  him  walk  by  her  and  put  his 
hand  under  the  padrone's  shoulder.  Madonna!" 

They  turned  away  from  the  village  into  a  narrow 
path  that  led  into  the  hills. 

"And  I  came  to  fetch  you,  Signer  Dottore.  Perhaps 
the  povero  signore  is  not  really  dead.  Perhaps  you  can 
save  him,  Signer  Dottore!" 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  replied  the  doctor. 

He  had  let  his  cigar  go  out  and  did  not  know  it. 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  he  repeated,  mechanically. 

Then  they  went  on  in  silence — till  they  reached  the 
shoulder  of  the  mountain  under  Castel  Vecchio.  From 
here  they  could  see  across  the  ravine  to  the  steep  slope 
of  Monte  Amato.  Upon  it,  high  up,  a  light  shone,  and 
presently  a  second  light  detached  itself  from  the  first, 
moved  a  little  way,  and  then  was  stationary. 

Giuseppe  pointed. 

"Ecco,  Signer  Dottore!  They  have  carried  the  poor 
signore  up." 

The  second  light  moved  waveringly  back  towards  the 
first. 

"They  are  carrying  him  into  the  house,  Signer  Dot- 
tore.  Madonna!  And  all  this  to  happen  in  the  night!" 

The  doctor  nodded  without  speaking.  He  was  watch- 
ing the  lights  up  there  in  that  lonely  place.  He  was  not 
433 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  man  of  strong  imagination,  and  was  accustomed  to 
look  on  misery,  the  misery  of  the  poor.  But  to-night  he 
felt  a  certain  solemnity  descend  upon  him  as  he  rode  by 
these  dark  by-paths  up  into  the  bosom  of  the  hills. 
Perhaps  part  of  this  feeling  came  from  the  fact  that  his 
mission  had  to  do  with  strangers,  with  rich  people  from 
a  distant  country  who  had  come  to  his  island  for  pleas- 
ure, and  who  were  now  suddenly  involved  in  tragedy  in 
the  midst  of  their  amusement.  But  also  he  had  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  personal  sympathy.  He  had  known  Her- 
mione  on  her  former  visit  to  Sicily  and  had  liked  her; 
and  though  this  time  he  had  seen  scarcely  anything  of 
her  he  had  seen  enough  to  be  aware  that  she  was  very 
happy  with  her  young  husband.  Maurice,  too,  he  had 
seen,  full  of  the  joy  of  youth  and  of  bounding  health. 
And  now  all  that  was  put  out,  if  Giuseppe's  account 
were  true.  It  was  a  pity,  a  sad  pity. 

The  donkey  crossed  the  mouth  of  the  ravine,  and 
picked  its  way  upward  carefully  amid  the  loose  stones. 
In  the  ravine  a  little  owl  hooted  twice. 

"Giuseppe!"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Signore  ?" 

"The  signora  has  been  away,  hasn't  she?" 

"Si  signore.     In  Africa." 

"Nursing  that  sick  stranger.  And  now  directly  she 
comes  back  here's  this  happening  to  her!  Per  Dio!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Somebody  must  have  looked  on  the  povera  signora 
with  the  evil -eye,  Signer  Dottore." 

Giuseppe  crossed  himself. 

"It  seems  so,"  the  doctor  replied,  gravely. 

He  was  almost  as  superstitious  as  the  contadini  among 
whom  he  labored. 

"Ecco,  Signer  Dottore!" 

The  doctor  looked  up.  At  the  arch  stood  a  figure 
holding  a  little  lamp.  Almost  immediately,  two  more 
figures  appeared  behind  it. 

434 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Ildottore!     Ecco  il  dottore!" 

There  was  a  murmur  of  voices  in  the  dark.  As  the 
donkey  came  up  the  excited  fishermen  crowded"  round, 
all  speaking  at  once. 

"  He  is  dead,  Signer  Dottore.  The  povero  signore  is 
dead!" 

"Let  the  Signor  Dottore  come  to  him,  Beppe!  What 
do  you  know  ?  Let  the — " 

"Sure  enough  he  is  dead!  Why,  he  must  have  been 
in  the  water  a  good  hour.  He  is  all  swollen  with  the 
water  and — " 

"It  is  his  head,  Signor  Dottore!  If  it  had  not  been 
for  his  coming  against  the  rocks  he  would  not  have  been 
hurt.  Per  Dio,  he  can  swim  like  a  fish,  the  povero  sig- 
norino.  I  have  seen  him  swim.  Why,  even  Peppino — 

"The  signora  wants  us  all  to  go  away,  Signor  Dottore. 
She  begs  us  to  go  and  leave  her  alone  with  the  povero 
signore!" 

"Gaspare  is  in  such  a  state!  You  would  not  know 
him.  And  the  povera  signora,  she  is  all  dripping  wet. 
She  has  been  into  the  sea,  and  now  she  has  carried  the 
head  of  the  povero  signore  all  the  way  up  the  mountain. 
She  would  not  let  any  one — " 

A  succession  of  cries  came  out  of  the  darkness,  hysteri- 
cal cries  that  ended  in  prolonged  sobbing. 

"That  is  Lucrezia!"  cried  one  of  the  fishermen. 
"Madonna!  That  is  Lucrezia!" 

" Mamma  mia!     Mamma  mia!" 

Their  voices  were  loud  in  the  night.  The  doctor  push- 
ed his  way  between  the  men  and  came  onto  the  terrace 
in  front  of  the  steps  that  led  into  the  sitting-room. 

Gaspare  was  standing  there  alone.  His  face  was  al- 
most unrecognizable.  It  looked  battered,  puffy,  and 
inflamed,  as  if  he  had  been  drinking  and  fighting.  There 
were  no  tears  in  his  eyes  now,  but  long,  violent  sobs 
shook  his  body  from  time  to  time,  and  his  blistered  lips 
opened  and  shut  mechanically  with  each  sob.  He  stared 
435 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

dully  at  the  doctor,  but  did  not  say  a  word,  or  move  to 
get  out  of  the  way. 

"  Gaspare!"  said  the  doctor.     "  Where  is  the  padrona  ?" 

The  boy  sobbed  and  sobbed,  always  in  the  same  dry 
and  terribly  mechanical  way. 

"  Gaspare!"  repeated  the  doctor,  touching  him.  "  Gas- 
pare!" 

"E*  morto!"  the  boy  suddenly  cried  out,  in  a  loud 
voice. 

And  he  flung  himself  down  on  the  ground. 

The  doctor  felt  a  thrill  of  cold  in  his  veins.  He  went 
up  the  steps  into  the  little  sitting-room.  As  he  did  so 
Hermione  came  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  Her  drip- 
ping skirts  clung  about  her.  She  looked  quite  calm. 
Without  greeting  the  doctor  she  said,  quietly: 

"You  heard  what  Gaspare  said?" 

"Si,  signora,  ma — 

The  doctor  stopped,  staring  at  her.  He  began  to  feel 
almost  dazed.  The  fishermen  had  followed  him  and 
stood  crowding  together  on  the  steps  and  staring  into 
the  room. 

"He  is  dead.     I  am  sorry  you  came  all  this  way." 

They  stood  there  facing  one  another.  From  the 
kitchen  came  the  sound  of  Lucrezia's  cries.  Hermione 
put  her  hands  up  to  her  ears. 

"Please — please — oh,  there  should  be  a  little  silence 
here  now!"  she  said. 

For  the  first  time  there  was  a  sound  of  something  like 
despair  in  her  voice. 

"Let  me  come  in,  signora!"  stammered  the  doctor. 
"Let  me  come  in  and  examine  him." 

"He  is  dead." 

"Well,  but  let  me.     I  must!" 

"Please  come  in,"  she  said. 

The  doctor  turned  round  to  the  fishermen. 

"Go,  one  of  you,  and  make  that  girl  keep  quiet,"  he 
said,  angrily.  "Take  her  away  out  of  the  house — 
436 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

directly!  Do  you  hear?  And  the  rest  of  you  stay 
outside,  and  don't  make  a  sound." 

The  fishermen  slunk  a  little  way  back  into  the  dark- 
ness, while  Giuseppe,  walking  on  the  toes  of  his  bare  feet, 
and  glancing  nervously  at  the  furniture  and  the  pictures 
upon  the  walls,  crossed  the  room  and  disappeared  into 
the  kitchen.  Then  the  doctor  laid  down  his  cigar  on  a 
table  and  went  into  the  bedroom  whither  Hermione  had 
preceded  him. 

There  was  a  lighted  candle  on  the  white  chest  of 
drawers.  The  window  and  the  shutters  of  the  room 
were  closed  against  the  glances  of  the  fishermen.  On 
one  of  the  two  beds — Hermione 's — lay  the  body  of  a 
man  dripping  with  water.  The  doctor  took  the  candle 
in  his  hand,  went  to  this  bed  and  leaned  down,  then  set 
down  the  candle  at  the  bedhead  and  made  a.  brief  ex- 
amination. He  found  at  once  that  Gaspare  had  spoken 
the  truth.  This  man  had  been  dead  for  some  time. 
Nevertheless,  something — he  scarcely  knew  what — kept 
the  doctor  there  by  the  bed  for  some  moments  before 
he  pronounced  his  verdict.  Never  before  had  he  felt  so 
great  a  reluctance  to  speak  the  simple  words  that  would 
convey  a  great  truth.  He  fingered  his  shirt-front  un- 
easily, and  stared  at  the  body  on  the  bed  and  at  the 
wet  sheets  and  pillows.  Meanwhile,  Hermione  had  sat 
down  on  a  chair  near  the  door  that  opened  into  what 
had  been  Maurice's  dressing-room,  and  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap.  The  doctor  did  not  look  towards  her,  but  he 
felt  her  presence  painfully.  Lucrezia's  cries  had  died 
away,  and  there  was  complete  silence  for  a  brief  space 
of  time. 

The  body  on  the  bed  was  swollen,  but  not  very  much, 
the  face  was  sodden,  the  hair  plastered  to  the  head,  and 
on  the  left  temple  there  was  a  large  wound,  evidently, 
as  the  doctor  had  seen,  caused  by  the  forehead  striking 
violently  against  a  hard,  resisting  substance.  It  was 
not  the  sea  alone  which  had  killed  this  man.  It  was 
437 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

the  sea  and  the  rock  in  the  sea.  He  had  fallen,  been 
stunned  and  then  drowned.  The  doctor  knew  the  place 
where  he  had  been  found.  The  explanation  of  the 
tragedy  was  very  simple — very  simple. 

While  the  doctor  was  thinking  this,  and  fingering  his 
shirt-front  mechanically,  and  bracing  himself  to  turn 
towards  the  quiet  woman  in  the  chair,  he  heard  a  loud, 
dry  noise  in  the  sitting-room,  then  in  the  bedroom. 
Gaspare  had  come  in,  and  was  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  sobbing  and  staring  at  the  doctor  with  hope- 
less eyes,  that  yet  asked  a  last  question,  begged  desper- 
ately for  a  lie. 

"Gaspare!" 

The  woman  in  the  chair  whispered  to  him.  He  took 
no  notice. 

"Gaspare!" 

She  got  up  and  crossed  over  to  the  boy,  and  took  one 
of  his  hands. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  said.     "Perhaps  he  is  happy." 

Then  the  boy  began  to  cry  passionately.  Tears  pour- 
ed out  of  his  eyes  while  he  held  his  padrona's  hand. 
The  doctor  got  up. 

"He  is  dead,  signora,"  he  said. 

"We  knew  it,"  Hermione  replied. 

She  looked  at  the  doctor  for  a  minute.  Then  she 
said: 

"Hush,  Gaspare!" 

The  doctor  stood  by  the  bed. 

"Scusi,  signora,"  he  said,  "but — but  will  you  take 
him  into  the  next  room." 

He  pointed  to  Gaspare,  who  shivered  as  he  wept. 
'I  must  make  a  further  examination." 

"  Why  ?     You  see  that  he  is  dead." 

"Yes,  but — there  are  certain  formalities." 

He  stopped. 

" Formalities!"  she  said.     "  He  is  dead." 

"Yes.     But — but  the  authorities  will  have  to  be  in- 
438 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

formed.     I  am  very  sorry.     I  should  wish  to  leave  every- 
thing undisturbed." 

"What  do  you  mean?     Gaspare!     Gaspare!" 

"  But — according  to  the  law,  our  law,  the  body  should 
never  have  been  moved.  It  should  have  been  left  where 
it  was  found  until — " 

"  We  could  not  leave  him  in  the  sea." 

She  still  spoke  quite  quietly,  but  the  doctor  felt  as  if 
he  could  not  go  on. 

"Since  it  is  done — "  he  began. 

He  pulled  himself  together  with  an  effort. 

"There  will  have  to  be  an  inquiry,  signora — the  cause 
of  death  will  have  to  be  ascertained." 

"You  see  it.  He  was  coming  from  the  island.  He 
fell  and  was  drowned.  It  is  very  simple." 

"Yes,  no  doubt.  Still,  there  must  be  an  inquiry. 
Gaspare  will  have  to  explain — 

He  looked  at  the  weeping  boy,  then  at  the  woman 
who  stood  there  holding  the  boy's  hand  in  hers. 

"  But  that  will  be  for  to-morrow,"  he  muttered,  finger- 
ing his  shirt-front  and  looking  down.  "That  will  be  for 
to-morrow." 

As  he  went  out  he  added: 

"Signora,  do  not  remain  in  your  wet  clothes." 

"I — oh,  thank  you.     They  do  not  matter." 

She  did  not  follow  him  into  the  next  room.  As  he 
went  down  the  steps  to  the  terrace  the  sound  of  Gas- 
pare's passionate  weeping  followed  him  into  the  night. 

When  the  doctor  was  on  the  donkey  and  was  riding 
out  through  the  arch,  after  a  brief  colloquy  with  the 
fishermen  and  with  Giuseppe,  whom  he  had  told  to  re- 
main at  the  cottage  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  he  suddenly 
remembered  the  cigar  which  he  had  left  upon  the  table, 
and  he  pulled  up. 

"  What  is  it,  Signer  Dottore  ?"  said  one  of  the  fishermen. 

"I've  left  something,  but — never  mind.  It  does  not 
matter." 

439 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

He  rode  on  again. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  he  repeated. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  English  signora  standing  be- 
side the  bed  in  her  wet  skirts  and  holding  the  hand  of 
the  weeping  boy. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever  sacri- 
ficed a  good  cigar. 

He  wondered  why  he  did  so  now,  but  he  did  not  care 
to  return  just  then  to  the  Casa  del  Prete. 


XXIII 

HERMIONB  longed  for  quiet,  for  absolute  silence. 

It  seemed  strange  to  her  that  she  still  longed  for  any- 
thing— strange  and  almost  horrible,  almost  inhuman. 
But  she  did  long  for  that,  to  be  able  to  sit  beside  her 
dead  husband  and  to  be  undisturbed,  to  hear  no  voice 
speaking,  no  human  movement,  to  see  no  one.  If  it 
had  been  possible  she  would  have  closed  the  cottage 
against  every  one,  even  against  Gaspare  and  Lucrezia. 
But  it  was  not  possible.  Destiny  did  not  choose  that 
she  should  have  this  calm,  this  silence.  It  had  seemed 
to  her,  when  fear  first  came  upon  her,  as  if  no  one  but 
herself  had  any  real  concern  with  Maurice,  as  if  her  love 
conferred  upon  her  a  monopoly.  This  monopoly  had 
been  one  of  joy.  Now  it  should  be  one  of  sorrow.  But 
now  it  did  not  exist.  She  was  not  weeping  for  Maurice. 
But  others  were.  She  had  no  one  to  go  to.  But  others 
came  to  her,  clung  to  her.  She  could  not  rid  herself  of 
the  human  burden. 

She  might  have  been  selfish,  determined,  she  might 
have  driven  the  mourners  out.  But — and  that  was 
strange,  too — she  found  herself  pitying  them,  trying  to 
use  her  intellect  to  soothe  them. 

Lucrezia  was  terrified,  almost  like  one  assailed  sud- 
denly by  robbers,  terrified  and  half  incredulous.  When 
her  hysteria  subsided  she  was  at  first  unbelieving. 

"He  cannot  be  really  dead,  signora!"  she  sobbed  to 
Hermione.  "The  povero  signorino.  He  was  so  gay! 
He  was  so — " 

She  talked  and  talked,  as  Sicilians  do  when  face  to 
face  with  tragedy. 

441 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  recalled  Maurice's  characteristics,  his  kindness,  his 
love  of  climbing,  fishing,  bathing,  his  love  of  the  sun — 
all  his  love  of  life. 

Hermione  had  to  listen  to  the  story  with  that  body 
lying  on  her  bed. 

Gaspare's  grief  was  speechless,  but  needed  comfort 
more.  There  was  an  elfiment  in  it  of  fury  which  Her- 
mione realized  without  rightly  understanding.  She 
supposed  it  was  the  fury  of  a  boy  from  whom  something 
is  taken  by  one  whom  he  cannot  attack. 

For  God  is  beyond  our  reach. 

She  could  not  understand  the  conflict  going  on  in  the 
boy's  heart  and  mind. 

He  knew  that  this  death  was  probably  no  natural 
death,  but  a  murder. 

Neither  Maddalena  nor  her  father  had  been  in  the 
Casa  delle  Sirene  when  he  knocked  upon  the  door  in  the 
night.  Salvatore  had  sent  Maddalena  to  spend  the 
night  with  relations  in  Marechiaro,  on  the  pretext  that 
he  was  going  to  sail  to  Messina  on  some  business.  And 
he  had  actually  sailed  before  Gaspare's  arrival  on  the 
island.  But  Gaspare  knew  that  there  had  been  a  meet- 
ing, and  he  knew  what  the  Sicilian  is  when  he  is  wronged. 
The  words  "vengeance  is  mine!"  are  taken  in  Sicily  by 
each  wronged  man  into  his  own  mouth,  and  Salvatore 
was  notoriously  savage  and  passionate. 

As  the  first  shock  of  horror  and  despair  passed  away 
from  Gaspare  he  was  devoured,  as  by  teeth,  devoured 
by  the  desire  to  spring  upon  Salvatore  and  revenge  the 
death  of  his  padrone.  But  the  padrone  had  laid  a 
solemn  injunction  upon  him.  Solemn,  indeed,  it  seemed 
to  the  boy  now  that  the  lips  which  had  spoken  were 
sealed  forever.  The  padrona  was  never  to  know.  If  he 
obeyed  his  impulse,  if  he  declared  the  vendetta  against 
Salvatore,  the  padrona  would  know.  The  knife  that 
spilled  the  murderer's  blood  would  give  the  secret  to  the 
world — and  to  the  padrona. 

442 


THE    CALL  OF   THE    BLOOD 

Tremendous  that  night  was  the  conflict  in  the  boy's 
soul.  He  would  not  leave  Hermione.  He  was  like  the 
dog  that  creeps  to  lie  at  the  feet  of  his  sorrowing  mis- 
tress. But  he  was  more  than  that.  For  he  had  his 
ov/n  sorrow  and  his  own  fury.  And  he  had  the  battle 
with  his  own  instincts. 

What  was  he  going  to  do  ? 

As  he  began  to  think,  really  to  think,  and  to  realize 
things,  he  knew  that  after  such  a  death  the  authorities 
of  Marechiaro,  the  Pretore  and  the  Cancelliere,  would 
proceed  to  hold  a  careful  examination  into  the  causes 
of  death.  He  would  be  questioned.  That  was  certain. 
The  opportunity  would  be  given  him  to  denounce  Sal- 
vatore. 

And  was  he  to  keep  silence  ?  Was  he  to  act  for  Sal- 
vatore,  to  save  Salvatore  from  justice?  He  would  not 
have  minded  doing  that,  he  would  have  wished  to  do  it, 
if  afterwards  he  could  have  sprung  upon  Salvatore  and 
buried  his  knife  in  the  murderer  of  his  padrone. 

But — the  padrona?  She  was  not  to  know.  She  was 
never  to  know.  And  she  had  been  the  first  in  his  life. 
She  had  found  him,  a  poor,  ragged  little  boy  working 
among  the  vines,  and  she  had  given  him  new  clothes 
and  had  taken  him  into  her  home  and  into  her  con- 
fidence. She  had  trusted  him.  She  had  remembered 
him  in  England.  She  had  written  to  him  from  far 
away,  telling  him  to  prepare  everything  for  her  and  the 
padrone  when  they  were  coming. 

He  began  to  sob  violently  again,  thinking  of  it  all,  of 
how  he  had  ordered  the  donkeys  to  fetch  the  luggage 
from  the  station,  of  how — 

"Hush,  Gaspare!" 

Hermione  again  put  her  hand  on  his.  She  was  sitting 
near  the  bed  on  which  the  body  was  lying  between  dry 
sheets.  For  she  had  changed  them  with  Gaspare's  as- 
sistance. Maurice  still  wore  the  clothes  which  had  been 
on  him  in  the  sea.  Giuseppe,  the  fisherman,  had  ex- 

•9  443 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

plained  to  Hermione  that  she  must  not  interfere  with 
the  body  till  it  had  been  visited  by  the  authorities,  and 
she  had  obeyed  him.  But  she  had  changed  the  sheets. 
She  scarcely  knew  why.  Now  the  clothes  had  almost 
dried  on  the  body,  and  she  did  not  see  any  more  the 
stains  of  water.  One  sheet  was  drawn  up  over  the 
body,  to  the  chin.  The  matted  dark  hair  was  visible 
against  the  pillow,  and  had  made  her  think  several 
times  vaguely  of  that  day  after  the  fishing  when  she  had 
watched  Maurice  taking  his  siesta.  She  had  longed  for 
him  to  wake  then,  for  she  had  known  that  she  was  going 
to  Africa,  that  they  had  only  a  few  hours  together  be- 
fore she  started.  It  had  seemed  almost  terrible  to  her, 
his  sleeping  through  any  of  those  hours.  And  now  he 
was  sleeping  forever.  She  was  sitting  there  waiting  for 
nothing,  but  she  could  not  realize  that  yet.  She  felt 
as  if  she  must  be  waiting  for  something,  that  some- 
thing must  presently  occur,  a  movement  in  the  bed,  a — 
she  scarcely  knew  what. 

Presently  the  clock  Gaspare  had  brought  from  the 
fair  chimed,  then  played  the  "Tre  Colori."  Lucrezia 
had  set  it  to  play  that  evening  when  she  was  waiting  for 
the  padrone  to  return  from  the  sea. 

When  he  heard  the  tinkling  tune  Gaspare  lifted  his 
head  and  listened  till  it  was  over.  It  recalled  to  him 
all  the  glories  of  the  fair.  He  saw  his  padrone  before 
him.  He  remembered  how  he  had  decorated  Maurice 
with  flowers,  and  he  felt  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

"The  povero  signorino!  the  povero  signorino!"  he 
cried,  in  a  choked  voice.  "  And  I  put  roses  above  his  ears ! 
Si,  signora,  I  did!  I  said  he  should  be  a  real  Siciliano!" 

He  began  to  rock  himself  to  and  fro.  His  whole  body 
shook,  and  his  face  had  a  frantic  expression  that  sug- 
gested violence. 

"I  put  roses  above  his  ears!"  he  repeated.  "That 
day  he  was  a  real  Siciliano!" 

"Gaspare — Gaspare — hush!     Don't!     Don't!" 
444 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

She  held  his  hand  and  went  on  speaking  softly. 

"We  must  be  quiet  in  here.  We  must  remember  to 
be  quiet.  It  isn't  our  fault,  Gaspare.  We  did  all  we 
could  to  make  him  happy.  We  ought  to  be  glad  of 
that.  You  did  everything  you  could,  and  he  loved  you 
for  it-.  He  was  happy  with  us.  I  think  he  was.  I 
think  he  was  happy  till  the  very  end.  And  that  is  some- 
thing to  be  glad  of.  Don't  you  think  he  was  very 
happy  here?" 

"Si,  signora!"  the  boy  whispered,  with  twitching  lips. 

"I'm  glad  I  came  back  in  time,"  Hermione  said,  look- 
ing at  the  dark  hair  on  the  pillow.  "  It  might  have  hap- 
pened before,  while  I  was  away.  I'm  glad  we  had  one 
more  day  together." 

Suddenly,  as  she  said  that,  something  in  the  mere 
sound  of  the  words  seemed  to  reveal  more  clearly  to  her 
heart  what  had  befallen  her,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
began  to  cry  and  to  remember.  She  remembered  all 
Maurice's  tenderness  for  her,  all  his  little  acts  of  kind- 
ness. They  seemed  to  pass  rapidly  in  procession  through 
her  mind  on  their  way  to  her  heart.  Not  one  surely  was 
absent.  How  kind  to  her  he  had  always  been  I  And  he 
could  never  be  kind  to  her  again.  And  she  could  never 
be  kind  to  him — never  again. 

Her  tears  went  on  falling  quietly.  She  did  not  sob 
like  Gaspare.  But  she  felt  that  now  she  had  begun  to 
cry  she  would  never  be  able  to  stop  again,  that  she 
would  go  on  crying  till  she,  too,  died. 

Gaspare  looked  up  at  her. 

"Signora!"  he  said.     "Signora!" 

Suddenly  he  got  up,  as  if  to  go  out  of  the  room,  out 
of  the  house.  The  sight  of  his  padrona's  tears  had 
driven  him  nearly  mad  with  the  desire  to  wreak  ven- 
geance upon  Salvatore.  For  a  moment  his  body  seemed 
to  get  beyond  his  control.  His  eyes  saw  blood,  and  his 
hand  darted  down  to  his  belt,  and  caught  at  the  knife 
that  was  there,  and  drew  it  out.  When  Hermione  saw 
445 


THE   CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

the  knife  she  thought  the  boy  was  going  to  kill  himself 
with  it.  She  sprang  up,  went  swiftly  to  Gaspare,  and 
put  her  hand  on  it  over  his  hand. 

"Gaspare,  what  are  you  doing?"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  his  face  was  horrible  in  its  savagery. 
He  opened  his  mouth,  still  keeping  his  grasp  on  the 
knife,  which  she  tried  to  wrest  from  him. 

"Lasci  andare!  Lasci  andare!"  he  said,  beginning  to 
struggle  with  her. 

"No,  Gaspare." 

"Allora— " 

He  paused  with  his  mouth  open. 

At  that  moment  he  was  on  the  very  verge  of  a  reve- 
lation of  the  truth.  He  was  on  the  point  of  telling 
Hermione  that  he  was  sure  that  the  padrone  had  been 
murdered,  and  that  he  meant  to  avenge  the  murder. 
Hermione  believed  that  for  the  moment  he  was  mad, 
and  was  determined  to  destroy  himself  in  her  presence. 
It  was  useless  to  pit  her  strength  against  his.  In  a  phys- 
ical struggle  she  must  be  overcome.  Her  only  chance 
was  to  subdue  him  by  other  means. 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  quickly,  breathlessly,  pointing 
to  the  bed.  "  Don't  you  think  the  padrone  would  have 
wished  you  to  take  care  of  me  now?  He  trusted  you. 
I  think  he  would.  I  think  he  would  rather  you  were 
with  me  than  any  one  else  in  the  whole  world.  You 
must  take  care  of  me.  You  must  take  care  of  me.  You 
must  never  leave  me!" 

The  boy  looked  at  her.  His  face  changed,  grew 
softer. 

"I've  got  nobody  now,"  she  added.  "Nobody  but 
you." 

The  knife  fell  on  the  floor. 

In  that  moment  Gaspare's  resolve  was  taken.  The 
battle  within  him  was  over.  He  must  protect  the 
padrona.  The  padrone  would  have  wished  it.  Then 
he  must  let  Salvatore  go. 

446 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  Hermione's  hand. 

"Lei  non  piange!"  he  muttered.  "Forse  Dio  la  aiu- 
tera." 

In  the  morning,  early,  Hermione  left  the  body  for 
the  first  time,  went  into  the  dressing-room,  changed  her 
clothes,  then  came  back  and  said  to  Gaspare: 

"I  am  going  a  little  way  up  the  mountain,  Gaspare. 
I  shall  not  be  long.  No,  don't  come  with  me.  Stay 
with  him.  Are  you  dreadfully  tired  ?" 

"No,  signora." 
•    "We  shall  be  able  to  rest  presently,"  she  said. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  time  when  they  would  take 
Maurice  from  her.  She  left  Gaspare  sitting  near  the  bed, 
and  went  out  onto  the  terrace.  Lucrezia  and  Gaspare, 
both  thoroughly  tired  out,  were  sleeping  soundly.  She 
was  thankful  for  that.  Soon,  she  knew,  she  would  have 
to  be  with  people,  to  talk,  to  make  arrangements.  But 
now  she  had  a  short  spell  of  solitude. 

She  went  slowly  up  the  mountain -side  till  she  was 
near  the  top.  Then  she  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  looked 
out  towards  the  sea. 

The  world  was  not  awake  yet,  although  the  sun  was 
coming.  Etna  was  like  a  great  phantom,  the  waters  at 
its  foot  were  pale  in  their  tranquillity.  The  air  was 
fresh,  but  there  was  no  wind  to  rustle  the  leaves  of  the 
oak-trees,  upon  whose  crested  heads  Hermione  gazed 
down  with  quiet,  tearless  eyes. 

She  had  a  strange  feeling  of  being  out  of  the  world, 
as  if  she  had  left  it,  but  still  had  the  power  to  see  it. 
She  wondered  if  Maurice  felt  like  that. 

He  had  said  it  would  be  good  to  lie  beneath  those  oak- 
trees  in  sight  of  Etna  and  the  sea.  How  she  wished  that 
she  could  lay  his  body  there,  alone,  away  from  all  other 
dead.  But  that  was  impossible,  she  supposed.  She  re- 
membered the  doctor's  words.  What  were  they  going 
to  do?  She  did  not  know  anything  about  Italian  pro- 
cedure in  such  an  event.  Would  they  take  him  away  ? 
447 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  had  no  intention  of  trying  to  resist  anything,  of 
offering  any  opposition.  It  would  be  useless,  and  be- 
sides he  had  gone  away.  Already  he  was  far  off.  She 
did  not  feel,  as  many  women  do,  that  so  long  as  they 
are  with  the  body  of  their  dead  they  are  also  with  the 
soul.  She  would  like  to  keep  the  dear  body,  to  have  it 
always  near  to  her,  to  live  close  to  the  spot  where  it  was 
committed  to  the  earth.  But  Maurice  was  gone.  Her 
Mercury  had  winged  his  way  from  her,  obedient  to  a 
summons  that  she  had  not  heard.  Always  she  had 
thought  of  him  as  swift,  and  swiftly,  without  warning, 
he  had  left  her.  He  had  died  young.  Was  that  won- 
derful ?  She  thought  not.  No;  age  could  have  noth- 
ing to  say  to  him,  could  hold  no  commerce  with  him. 
He  had  been  born  to  be  young  and  never  to  be  anything 
else.  It  seemed  to  her  now  strange  that  she  had  not 
felt  this,  foreseen  that  it  must  be  so.  And  yet,  only 
yesterday,  she  had  imagined  a  far  future,  and  their  child 
laying  them  in  the  ground  of  Sicily,  side  by  side,  and 
murmuring  "Buon  riposo"  above  their  mutual  sleep. 

Their  child!  A  life  had  been  taken  from  her.  Soon 
a  life  would  be  given  to  her.  Was  that  what  is  called 
compensation  ?  Perhaps  so.  Many  strange  thoughts, 
come  she  could  not  tell  why,  were  passing  through  her 
mind  as  she  sat  upon  this  height  in  the  dawn.  The 
thought  of  compensation  recalled  to  her  the  Book  of 
Job.  Everything  was  taken  from  Job;  not  only  his 
flocks  and  his  herds,  but  his  sons  and  his  daughters. 
And  then  at  the  last  he  was  compensated.  He  was 
given  new  flocks  and  herds  and  new  sons  and  daughters. 
And  it  was  supposed  to  be  well  with  Job.  If  it  was  well 
with  Job,  then  Job  had  been  a  man  without  a  heart. 

Never  could  she  be  compensated  for  this  loss,  which 
she  was  trying  to  realize,  but  which  she  would  not  be 
able  to  realize  until  the  days  went  by,  and  the  nights, 
the  days  and  the  nights  of  the  ordinary  life,  when  trag- 
edy was  supposed  to  be  over  and  done  with,  and  people 
448 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

would  say,  and  no  doubt  sincerely  believe,  that  she  was 
"getting  accustomed"  to  her  loss. 

Thinking  of  Job  led  her  on  to  think  of  God's  dealings 
with  His  creatures. 

Hermione  was  a  woman  who  clung  to  no  special 
religion,  but  she  had  always,  all  her  life,  had  a  very 
strong  personal  consciousness  of  a  directing  Power  in 
the  world,  had  always  had  an  innate  conviction  that 
this  directing  Power  followed  with  de'ep  interest  the  life 
of  each  individual  in  the  scheme  of  His  creation.  She 
had  always  felt,  she  felt  now,  that  God  knew  everything 
about  her  and  her  life,  was  aware  of  all  her  feelings,  was 
constantly  intent  upon  her. 

He  was  intent.  But  was  He  kindly  or  was  He  cruelly 
intent  ? 

Surely  He  had  been  dreadfully  cruel  to  her! 

Only  yesterday  she  had  been  wondering  what  be- 
reaved women  felt  about  God.  Now  she  was  one  of 
these  women. 

"Was  Maurice  dead?"  she  thought — "was  he  already 
dead  when  I  was  praying  before  the  shrine  of  the  Ma- 
donna della  Rocca?" 

She  longed  to  know.  Yet  she  scarcely  knew  why  she 
longed.  It  was  like  a  strange,  almost  unnatural  curi- 
osity which  she  could  not  at  first  explain  to  herself. 
But  presently  her  mind  grew  clearer  and  she  connected 
this  question  with  that  other  question — of  God  and 
what  He  really  was,  what  He  really  felt  towards  His 
creatures,  towards  her. 

Had  God  allowed  her  to  pray  like  that,  with  all  her 
heart  and  soul,  and  then  immediately  afterwards  de- 
liberately delivered  her  ever  to  the  fate  of  desolate 
women,  or  had  Maurice  been  already  dead  ?  If  that  were 
so,  and  it  must  surely  have  been  so,  for  when  she  prayed 
it  was  already  night,  she  had  been  led  to  pray  for  her- 
self ignorantly,  and  God  had  taken  away  her  joy  before 
He  had  heard  her  prayer.  If  He  had  heard  it  first  He 
449 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

surely  could  not  have  dealt  so  cruelly  with  her  —  so 
cruelly!  No  human  being  could  have,  she  thought, 
even  the  most  hard-hearted. 

But  perhaps  God  was  not  all-powerful. 

She  remembered  that  once  in  London  she  had  asked 
a  clever  and  good  clergyman  if,  looking  around  upon 
the  state  of  things  in  the  world,  he  was  able  to  believe 
without  difficulty  that  the  world  was  governed  by  an 
all-wise,  all-powerful,  and  all-merciful  God.  And  his 
reply  to  her  had  been,  "I  sometimes  wonder  whether 
God  is  all-powerful — yet."  She  had  not  pursued  the 
subject,  but  she  had  not  forgotten  this  answer;  and  she 
thought  of  it  now. 

Was  there  a  conflict  in  the  regions  beyond  the  world 
which  was  the  only  one  she  knew  ?  Had  an  enemy  done 
this  thing,  an  enemy  not  only  of  hers,  but  of  God's,  an 
enemy  who  had  power  over  God  ? 

That  thought  was  almost  more  terrible  than  the 
thought  that  God  had  been  cruel  to  her. 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  wondering,  thinking,  but  not 
praying.  She  did  not  feel  as  if  she  could  ever  pray  any 
more.  The  world  was  lighted  up  by  the  sun.  The  sea 
began  to  gleam,  the  coast-line  to  grow  more  distinct,  the 
outlines  of  the  mountains  and  of  the  Saracenic  Castle 
on  the  height  opposite  to  her  more  hard  and  more  bar- 
baric against  the  deepening  blue.  She  saw  smoke  com- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  Etna,  sideways,  as  if  blown  tow- 
ards the  sea.  A  shepherd  boy  piped  somewhere  below 
her.  And  still  the  tune  was  the  tarantella.  She  lis- 
tened to  it — the  tarantella.  So  short  a  time  ago  Maurice 
had  danced  with  the  boys  upon  the  terrace!  How  can 
such  life  be  so  easily  extinguished  ?  How  can  such  joy 
be  not  merely  clouded  but  utterly  destroyed  ?  A  mo- 
ment, and  from  the  body  everything  is  expelled;  light 
from  the  eyes,  speech  from  the  lips,  movement  from  the 
limbs,  joy,  passion  from  the  heart.  How  can  such  a 
thing  be? 

45° 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

The  little  shepherd  boy  played  on  and  on.  He  was 
nearer  now.  He  was  ascending  the  slope  of  the  moun- 
tain, coming  up  towards  heaven  with  his  little  happy 
tune.  She  heard  him  presently  among  the  oak-trees 
immediately  below  her,  passing  almost  at  her  feet. 

To  Hermione  the  thin  sound  of  the  reed-flute  always 
had  suggested  Arcady.  Even  now  it  suggested  Arcady 
— the  Arcady  of  the  imagination:  wide  soft  airs,  blue 
skies  and  seas,  eternal  sunshine  and  delicious  shade, 
and  happiness  where  is  a  sweet  noise  of  waters  and  of 
birds,  a  sweet  and  deep  breathing  of  kind  and  boun- 
teous nature. 

And  that  little  boy  with  the  flute  would  die.  His 
foot  might  slip  now  as  he  came  upward,  and  no  more 
could  he  play  souls  into  Arcady! 

The  tune  wound  away  to  her  left,  like  a  gay  and  care- 
less living  thing  that  was  travelling  ever  upward,  then 
once  more  came  towards  her.  But  now  it  was  above 
her.  She  turned  her  head  and  she  saw  the  little  player 
against  the  blue.  He  was  on  a  rock,  and  for  a  moment 
he  stood  still.  On  his  head  was  a  long  woollen  cap, 
hanging  over  at  one  side.  It  made  Hermione  think  of 
the  woollen  cap  she  had  seen  come  out  of  the  darkness 
of  the  ravine  as  she  waited  with  Gaspare  for  the  padrone. 
Against  the  blue,  standing  on  the  gray  and  sunlit  rock, 
with  the  flute  at  his  lips,  and  his  tiny,  deep-brown  fin- 
gers moving  swiftly,  he  looked  at  one  with  the  moun- 
tain and  yet  almost  unearthly,  almost  as  if  the  blue  had 
given  birth  to  him  for  a  moment,  and  in  a  moment 
would  draw  him  back  again  into  the  womb  of  its  won- 
der. His  goats  were  all  around  him,  treading  delicately 
among  the  rocks.  As  Hermione  watched  he  turned  and 
went  away  into  the  blue,  and  the  tarantella  went  away 
into  the  blue  with  him. 

Her  Sicilian  and  his  tarantella,  the  tarantella  of  his 
joy  in  Sicily — they  had  gone  away  into  the  blue. 

She  looked  at  it,  deep,  quivering,  passionate,  intense; 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  of  blue!  And  she 
listened  as  she  looked;  listened  for  some  far-off  taran- 
tella, for  some  echo  of  a  fainting  tarantella,  that  might 
be  a  message  to  her,  a  message  left  on  the  sweet  air  of 
the  enchanted  island,  telling  her  where  the  winged  feet 
of  her  beloved  one  mounted  towards  the  sun. 


XXIV 

GIUSEPPE  came  to  fetch  Hermione  from  the  moun- 
tain. He  had  a  note  in  his  hand  and  also  a  message  to 
give.  The  authorities  were  already  at  the  cottage;  the 
Pretore  of  Marechiaro  with  his  Cancelliere,  Dr.  Marini 
and  the  Maresciallo  of  the  Carabinieri. 

' '  They  have  come  already  ? ' '  Hermione  said.  "  So  soon ! ' ' 

She  took  the  note.     It  was  from  Artois. 

"There  is  a  boy  waiting,  signora,"  said  Giuseppe. 
"Gaspare  is  with  the  Signor  Pretore." 

She  opened  Emile's  note. 

"  I  cannot  write  anything  except  this— do  you  wish  me  to 
come  ? — E." 

"Do  I  wish  him  to  come?"  she  thought. 

She  repeated  the  words  mentally  several  times,  while 
the  fisherman  stood  by  her,  staring  at  her  with  sympathy. 
Then  she  went  down  to  the  cottage. 

Dr.  Marini  met  her  on  the  terrace.  He  looked  em- 
barrassed. He  was  expecting  a  terrible  scene. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  "I  am  very  sorry,  but — but  I  am 
obliged  to  perform  my  duty." 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "Of  course.     What  is  it?" 

"As  there  is  a  hospital  in  Marechiaro — " 

He  stopped. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"The  autopsy  of  the  body  must  take  place  there. 
Otherwise  I  could  have — •" 

"You  have  come  to  take  him  away,"  she  said.  "I 
understand.  Very  well." 

453 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

But  they  could  not  take  him  away,  these  people.  For 
he  was  gone;  he  had  gone  away  into  the  blue. 

The  doctor  looked  relieved,  though  surprised,  at  her 
apparent  nonchalance. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  signora,"  he  said — "very  sorry." 

"Must  I  see  the  Pretore?"  she  said. 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  signora.  They  will  want  to  ask  you 
a  few  questions.  The  b  4y  ought  not  to  have  been 
moved  from  the  place  where — " 

"  We  could  not  leave  him  in  the  sea,"  she  said,  as  she 
had  said  in  the  night. 

"  No,  no.     You  will  only  just  have  to  say — " 

"  I  will  tell  them  what  I  know.  He  went  down  to  bathe." 

"Yes.  But  the  Pretore  will  want  to  know  why  he 
went  to  Salvatore's  terreno." 

"  I  suppose  he  bathed  from  there.  He  knew  the  peo- 
ple in  the  Casa  delle  Sirene,  I  believe." 

She  spoke  indifferently.  It  seemed  to  her  so  utterly 
useless,  this  inquiry  by  strangers  into  the  cause  of  her 
sorrow. 

"I  must  just  write  something,"  she  added. 

She  went  up  the  steps  into  the  sitting-room.  Gas- 
pare was  there  with  three  men — the  Pretore,  the  Can- 
celliere  and  the  Maresciallo.  As  she  came  in  the  stran- 
gers turned  and  saluted  her  with  grave  politeness,  all 
looking  earnestly  at  her  with  their  dark  eyes.  But  Gas- 
pare did  not  look  at  her.  He  had  the  ugly  expression 
on  his  face  that  Hermione  had  noticed  the  day  before. 

"  Will  you  please  allow  me  to  write  a  line  to  a  friend  ?" 
Hermione  said.  "Then  I  shall  be  ready  to  answer  your 
questions." 

"Certainly,  signora,"  said  the  Pretore;  "we  are  very 
sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  it  is  our  duty." 

He  had  gray  hair  and  a  dark  mustache,  and  his  black 
eyes  looked  as  if  they  had  been  varnished. 

Hermione  went  to  the  writing-table,  while  the  men 
stood  in  silence  rilling  up  the  little  room. 
454 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

''What  shall  I  say?"  she  thought. 

She  heard  the  boots  of  the  Cancelliere  creak  as  he 
shifted  his  feet  upon  the  floor.  The  Maresciallo  cleared 
his  throat.  There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation.  Then 
he  went  to  the  steps  and  spat  upon  the  terrace. 

"Don't  come  yet,"  she  wrote,  slowly. 

Then  she  turned  round. 

"  How  long  will  your  inquiry  take,  do  you  think, 
signore  ?"  she  asked  of  the  Pretore.  "When  will — when 
can  the  funeral  take  place  ?" 

"Signora,  I  trust  to-morrow.  I  hope — I  do  not  sup- 
pose there  will  be  any  reason  to  suspect,  after  what  Dr. 
Marini  has  told  us  and  we  have  seen,  that  the  death  was 
anything  but  an  accident — an  accident  which  we  all  most 
deeply  grieve  for." 

"It  was  an  accident." 

She  stood  by  the  table  with  the  pen  in  her  hand. 

"I  suppose — I  suppose  he  must  be  buried  in  the 
Campo  Santo?"  she  said. 

"Do  you  wish  to  convey  the  body  to  England,  sig- 
nora?" 

"  Oh  no.  He  loved  Sicily.  He  wished  to  stay  al- 
ways here,  I  think,  although — " 

She  broke  off. 

"  I  could  never  take  him  away  from  Sicily.  But  there 
is  a  place  here — under  the  oak-trees.  He  was  very  fond 
of  it." 

Gaspare  began  to  sob,  then  controlled  himself  with  a 
desperate  effort,  turned  round  and  stood  with  his  face 
to  the  wall. 

"I  suppose,  if  I  could  buy  a  piece  of  land  there,  it 
could  not  be  permitted — •?" 

She  looked  at  the  Pretore. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  signora,  such  a  thing  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  allowed.  If  the  body  is  buried  here  it  must  be 
in  the  Campo  Santo." 

"Thank  you." 

455 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

She  turned  to  the  table  and  wrote  after  "  Don't  come 
yet": 

"  They  are  taking  him  away  now  to  the  hospital  in  the  vil- 
lage. I  shall  come  down.  I  think  the  funeral  will  be  to-mor- 
row. They  tell  me  he  must  be  buried  in  the  Campo  Santo.  I 
should  have  liked  him  to  lie  here  under  the  oak-trees. 

"  HERMIONE." 

When  Artois  read  this  note  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

No  event  in  his  life  had  shocked  him  so  much  as  the 
death  of  Delarey. 

It  had  shocked  both  his  intellect  and  his  heart.  And 
yet  his  intellect  could  hardly  accept  it  as  a  fact.  When, 
early  that  morning,  one  of  the  servants  of  the  Hotel 
Regina  Margherita  had  rushed  into  his  room  to  tell  him, 
he  had  refused  to  believe  it.  But  then  he  had  seen  the 
fishermen,  and  finally  Dr.  Marini.  And  he  had  been 
obliged  to  believe.  His  natural  impulse  was  to  go  to 
his  friend  in  her  trouble  as  she  had  come  to  him  in  his. 
But  he  checked  it.  His  agony  had  been  physical.  Hers 
was  of  the  affections,  and  how  far  greater  than  his  had 
ever  been!  He  could  not  bear  to  think  of  it.  A  great 
and  generous  indignation  seized  him,  an  indignation 
against  the  catastrophes  of  life.  That  this  should  be 
Hermione's  reward  for  her  noble  unselfishness  roused 
in  him  something  that  was  like  fury;  and  then  there  fol- 
lowed a  more  torturing  fury  against  himself. 

He  had  deprived  her  of  days  and  weeks  of  happiness. 
Such  a  short  span  of  joy  had  been  allotted  to  her,  and 
he  had  not  allowed  her  to  have  even  that.  He  had 
called  her  away.  He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  write 
any  word  of  sympathy.  It  seemed  to  him  that  to  do 
so  would  be  a  hideous  irony,  and  he  sent  the  line  in 
pencil  which  she  had  received.  And  then  he  walked  up 
and  down  in  his  little  sitting-room,  raging  against  him- 
self, hating  himself. 

In  his  now  bitterly  acute  consideration  of  his  friend- 
456 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

ship  with  Hermione  he  realized  that  he  had  always  been 
selfish,  always  the  egoist  claiming  rather  than  the  gen- 
erous donor.  He  had  taken  his  burdens  to  her,  not 
weakly,  for  he  was  not  a  weak  man,  but  with  a  desire 
to  be  eased  of  some  of  their  weight.  He  had  always 
been  calling  upon  her  for  sympathy,  and  she  had  always 
been  lavishly  responding,  scattering  upon  him  the  wealth 
of  her  great  heart. 

And  now  he  had  deprived  her  of  nearly  all  the  golden 
time  that  had  been  stored  up  for  her  by  the  decree  of 
the  Gods,  of  God,  of  Fate,  of — whatever  it  was  that 
ruled,  that  gave  and  that  deprived. 

A  bitterness  of  shame  gripped  him.  He  felt  like  a 
criminal.  He  said  to  himself  that  the  selfish  man  is  a 
criminal. 

"She  will  hate  me,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She  must. 
She  can't  help  it." 

Again  the  egoist  was  awake  and  speaking  within  him. 
He  realized  that  immediately  and  felt  almost  a  fear  of 
this  persistence  of  character.  What  is  the  use  of  clever- 
ness, of  clear  sight  into  others,  even  of  genius,  when  the 
self  of  a  man  declines  to  change,  declines  to  be  what  is 
not  despicable  ? 

"Mon  Dieu!"  he  thought,  passionately.  "And  even 
now  I  must  be  thinking  of  my  cursed  self!" 

He  was  beset  by  an  intensity  of  desire  to  do  some- 
thing for  Hermione.  For  once  in  his  life  his  heart,  the 
heart  she  believed  in  and  he  was  inclined  to  doubt  or  to 
despise,  drove  him  as  it  might  have  driven  a  boy,  even 
such  a  one  as  Maurice.  It  seemed  to  him  that  unless  he 
could  do  something  to  make  atonement  he  could  never 
be  with  Hermione  again,  could  never  bear  to  be  with 
her  again.  But  what  could  he  do  ? 

"At  least,"  he  thought,  "I  may  be  able  to  spare  her 

something  to-day.     I  may  be  able  to  arrange  with  these 

people  about  the  funeral,  about  all  the  practical  things 

that  are  so  frightful  a  burden  to  the  living  who  have 

457 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

loved  the  dead,  in  the  last  moments  before  the  dead  are 
given  to  the  custody  of  the  earth." 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  inquiry,  of  the  autopsy. 
Could  he  not  help  her,  spare  her  perhaps,  in  connection 
with  them? 

Despite  his  weakness  of  body  he  felt  feverishly  active, 
feverishly  desirous  to  be  of  practical  use.  If  he  could 
do  something  he  would  think  less,  too;  and  there  were 
thoughts  which  seemed  furtively  trying  to  press  them- 
selves forward  in  the  chambers  of  his  mind,  but  which, 
as  yet,  he  was,  also  furtively,  pushing  back,  striving  to 
keep  in  the  dark  place  from  which  they  desired  to 
emerge. 

Artois  knew  Sicily  well,  and  he  knew  that  such  a 
death  as  this  would  demand  an  inquiry,  might  raise 
suspicions  in  the  minds  of  the  authorities  of  Marechiaro. 
And  in  his  own  mind  ? 

He  was  a  mentally  courageous  man,  but  he  longed 
now  to  leave  Marechiaro,  to  leave  Sicily  at  once,  carry- 
ing Hermione  with  him.  A  great  dread  was  not  actually 
with  him,  but  was  very  near  to  him. 

Presently  something,  he  did  not  know  what,  drew 
him  to  the  window  of  his  bedroom  which  looked  out 
towards  the  main  street  of  the  village.  As  he  came  to 
it  he  heard  a  dull  murmur  of  voices,  and  saw  the  Sicilians 
crowding  to  their  doors  and  windows,  and  coming  out 
upon  their  balconies. 

The  body  of  Maurice  was  being  borne  to  the  hospital 
which  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  town.  As  soon  as  he 
realized  that,  Artois  closed  his  window.  He  could  not 
look  with  the  curious  on  that  procession.  He  went  back 
into  his  sitting-room,  which  faced  the  sea.  But  he  felt 
the  procession  going  past,  and  was  enveloped  in  the 
black  wonder  of  death. 

That  he  should  be  alive  and  Delarey  dead!  How  ex- 
traordinary that  was!  For  he  had  been  close  to  death, 
so  close  that  it  would  have  seemed  quite  natural  to 
458 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

him  to  die.  Had  not  Hermione  come  to  him,  he  thought, 
he  would  almost,  at  the  crucial  stage  in  his  illness,  have 
preferred  to  die.  It  would  have  been  a  far  easier,  far 
simpler  act  than  the  return  to  health  and  his  former 
powers.  And  now  he  stood  here  alive,  looking  at  the 
sea,  and  Delarey's  dead  body  was  being  carried  to  the 
hospital. 

Was  the  fact  that  he  was  alive  the  cause  of  the  fact 
that  Delarey  was  dead  ?  Abruptly  one  of  those  furtive 
thoughts  had  leaped  forward  out  of  its  dark  place  and 
challenged  him  boldly,  even  with  a  horrible  brutality. 
Too  late  now  to  try  to  force  it  back.  It  must  be  faced, 
be  dealt  with. 

Again,  and  much  more  strongly  than  on  the  previous 
day,  Artois  felt  that  in  Hermione's  absence  the  Sicilian 
life  of  the  dead  man  had  not  run  smoothly,  that  there 
had  been  some  episode  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  that 
he,  Artois,  had  been  right  in  his  suspicions  at  the  cot- 
tage. Delarey  had  been  in  fear  of  something,  had  been 
on  the  watch.  When  he  had  sat  by  the  wall  he  had 
been  tortured  by  some  tremendous  anxiety. 

He  had  gone  down  to  the  sea  to  bathe.  That  was 
natural  enough.  And  he  had  been  found  dead  under 
a  precipice  of  rock  in  the  sea.  The  place  was  a  danger- 
ous one,  they  said.  A  man  might  easily  fall  from  the 
rock  in  the  night.  Yes ;  but  why  should  he  be  there  ? 

That  thought  now  recurred  again  and  again  to  the 
mind  of  Artois.  Why  had  Delarey  been  at  the  place 
where  he  had  met  his  death  ?  The  authorities  of  Mare- 
chiaro  were  going  to  inquire  into  that,  were  probably 
down  at  the  sea  now.  Suppose  there  had  been  some 
tragic  episode?  Suppose  they  should  find  out  what  it 
was? 

He  saw  Hermione  in  the  midst  of  her  grief  the  central 
figure  of  some  dreadful  scandal,  and  his  heart  sickened. 

But  then  he  told  himself  that  perhaps  he  was  being 
led  by  his  imagination.  He  had  thought  that  possible 
3°  459 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

yesterday.  To-day,  after  what  had  occurred,  he  thought 
it  less  likely.  This  sudden  death  seemed  to  tell  him  that 
his  mind  had  been  walking  in  the  right  track.  Left 
alone  in  Sicily,  Delarey  might  have  run  wild.  He  might 
have  gone  too  far.  This  death  might  be  a  vengeance. 

Artois  was  deeply  interested  in  all  human  happenings, 
but  he  was  not  a  vulgarly  curious  man.  He  was  not 
curious  now,  he  was  only  afraid  for  Hermione.  He 
longed  to  protect  her  from  any  further  grief.  If  there 
were  a  dreadful  truth  to  know,  and  if,  by  knowing  it, 
he  could  guard  her  more  efficiently,  he  wished  to  know 
it.  But  his  instinct  was  to  get  her  away  from  Sicily  at 
once,  directly  the  funeral  was  over  and  the  necessary 
arrangements  could  be  made.  For  himself,  he  would 
rather  go  in  ignorance.  He  did  not  wish  to  add  to  the 
heavy  burden  of  his  remorse. 

There  came  at  this  moment  a  knock  at  his  door. 

"Avanti!"  he  said. 

The  waiter  of  the  hotel  came  in. 

"Signore,"  he  said.     "The  poor  signora  is  here." 

"In  the  hotel?" 

"Si,  signore.  They  have  taken  the  body  of  the 
signore  to  the  hospital.  Everybody  was  in  the  street 
to  see  it  pass.  And  now  the  poor  signora  has  come 
here.  She  has  taken  the  rooms  above  you  on  the  little 
terrace." 

"The  signora  is  going  to  stay  here?" 

"Si,  signore.  They  say,  if  the  Signor  Pretore  allows 
after  the  inquiry  is  over,  the  funeral  will  be  to-morrow." 

Artois  looked  at  the  man  closely.  He  was  a  young 
fellow,  handsome  and  gentler-looking  than  are  most  Si- 
cilians. Artois  wondered  what  the  people  of  Marechiaro 
were  saying.  He  knew  how  they  must  be  gossiping  on 
such  an  occasion.  And  then  it  was  summer,  when  they 
have  little  or  nothing  to  do,  no  forestieri  to  divide  their 
attentions  and  to  call  their  ever -ready  suspicions  in 
various  directions.  The  minds  of  the  whole  community 
460 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

must  undoubtedly  be  fixed  upon  this  tragic  episode  and 
its  cause. 

"If  the  Pretore  allows?"  Artois  said.  "But  surely 
there  can  be  no  difficulty  ?  The  poor  signore  fell  from 
the  rock  and  was  drowned." 

"Si,  signore." 

The  man  stood  there.  Evidently  he  was  anxious  to 
talk. 

"The  Signer  Pretore  has  gone  down  to  the  place  now, 
signore,  with  the  Cancelliere  and  the  Maresciallo.  They 
have  taken  Gaspare  with  them." 

"Gaspare!" 

Artois  thought  of  this  boy,  Maurice's  companion  dur- 
ing Hermione's  absence. 

"Si,  signore.  Gaspare  has  to  show  them  the  exact 
place  where  he  found  the  poor  signore." 

"I  suppose  the  inquiry  will  soon  be  over?" 

"Chi  lo  sa?" 

"Well,  but  what  is  there  to  do?  Whom  can  they  in- 
quire of?  It  was  a  lonely  place,  wasn't  it?  No  one 
was  there." 

"Chi  lo  sa?" 

"  If  there  had  been  any  one,  surely  the  signore  would 
have  been  rescued  at  once  ?  Did  not  every  one  here  love 
the  signore  ?  He  was  like  one  of  you,  wasn't  he,  one  of 
the  Sicilians?" 

"Si,  signore.  Maddalena  has  been  crying  about  the 
signore." 

"Maddalena?" 

"  Si,  signore,  the  daughter  of  Salvatore,  the  fisherman, 
who  lives  at  the  Casa  delle  Sirene." 

"Oh!" 

Artois  paused;  then  he  said: 

"Were  she  and  her  —  Salvatore  is  her  father,  you 
say?" 

"Her  father,  signore." 

"Were  they  at  the  Casa  delle  Sirene  yesterday?" 
461 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

Artois  spoke  quietly,  almost  carelessly,  as  if  merely 
to  say  something,  but  without  special  intention. 

"Maddalena  was  here  in  the  town  with  her  relations. 
And  they  say  Salvatore  is  at  Messina.  This  morning 
Maddalena  went  home.  She  was  crying.  Every  one 
saw  her  crying  for  the  signore." 

"That  is  very  natural  if  she  knew  him." 

"Oh  yes,  signore,  she  knew  him.  Why,  they  were  all 
at  the  fair  of  San  Felice  together  only  the  day  before." 

"Then,  of  course,  she  would  cry." 

"Si,  signore." 

The  man  put  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"If  the  signora  wishes  to  see  me  at  any  time  I  am 
here,"  said  Artois.  "But,  of  course,  I  shall  not  disturb 
her.  But  if  I  can  do  anything  to  help  her — about  the 
funeral,  for  instance — 

"The  signora  is  giving  all  the  directions  now.  The 
poor  signore  is  to  be  buried  in  the  high  part  of  the  Campo 
Santo  by  the  wall.  Those  who  are  not  Catholics  are 
buried  there,  and  the  poor  signore  was  not  a  Catholic. 
What  a  pity!" 

"Thank  you,  Ferdinando." 

The  man  went  out  slowly,  as  if  he  were  reluctant  to 
stop  the  conversation. 

So  the  villagers  were  beginning  to  gossip  already! 
Ferdinando  had  not  said  so,  but  Artois  knew  his  Sicily 
well  enough  to  read  the  silences  that  had  made  signifi- 
cant his  words.  Maddalena  had  been  crying  for  the 
signore.  Everybody  had  seen  Maddalena  crying  for 
the  signore.  That  was  enough.  By  this  time  the  vil- 
lage would  be  in  a  ferment,  every  woman  at  her  door 
talking  it  over  with  her  next-door  neighbor,  every  man 
in  the  Piazza,  or  in  one  of  the  wine-shops. 

Maddalena — a  Sicilian  girl — weeping,  and  Delarey's 

body  found  among  the  rocks  at  night  in  a  lonely  place 

close  to  her  cottage.     Artois  divined  something  of  the 

truth   and  hated  himself  the  more.     The  blood,   the 

462 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Sicilian  blood  in  Delarey,  had  called  to  him  in  the  sun- 
shine when  he  was  left  alone,  and  he  had,  no  doubt, 
obeyed  the  call.  How  far  had  he  gone  ?  How  strongly 
had  he  been  governed?  Probably  Artois  would  never 
know.  Long  ago  he  had  prophesied,  vaguely  perhaps, 
still  he  had  prophesied.  And  now  had  he  not  engineered 
perhaps  the  fufilment  of  his  own  prophecy  ? 

But  at  all  costs  Hermione  must  be  spared  any  knowl- 
edge of  that  fulfilment. 

He  longed  to  go  to  her  and  to  guard  her  door  against 
the  Sicilians.  But  surely  in  such  a  moment  they  would 
not  speak  to  her  of  any  suspicions,  of  any  certainties, 
even  if  they  had  them.  She  would  surely  be  the  last 
person  to  hear  anything,  unless — he  thought  of  the  "au- 
thorities"— of  the  Pretore,  the  Cancelliere,  the  Mares- 
ciallo,  and  suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  to  ride  down  to 
the  sea.  If  the  inquiry  had  yielded  any  terrible  result 
he  might  do  something  to  protect  Hermione.  If  not, 
he  might  be  able  to  prepare  her.  She  must  not  receive 
any  coarse  shock  from  these  strangers  in  the  midst  of 
her  agony. 

He  got  his  hat,  opened  his  door,  and  went  quietly 
down-stairs.  He  did  not  wish  to  see  Hermione  before 
he  went.  Perhaps  he  would  return  with  his  mind  re- 
lieved of  its  heaviest  burden,  and  then  at  least  he  could 
meet  her  eyes  without  a  furtive  guilt  in  his. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  met  Ferdinando. 

"Can  you  get  me  a  donkey,  Ferdinando?"  he  said. 

"Si,  signore." 

"  I  don't  want  a  boy.  Just  get  me  a  donkey,  and  I 
shall  go  for  a  short  ride.  You  say  the  signora  has  not 
asked  for  me?" 

"No,  signore." 

"  If  she  does,  explain  to  her  that  I  have  gone  out,  as 
I  did  not  like  to  disturb  her." 

Hermione  might  think  him  heartless  to  go  out  riding 
at  such  a  time.     He  would  risk  that.     He  would  risk 
463 


THE    CALL    OF    THE   BLOOD 

anything  to  spare  her  the  last,  the  nameless  agony  that 
would  be  hers  if  what  he  suspected  were  true,  and  she 
were  to  learn  of  it,  to  know  that  all  these  people  round 
her  knew  it. 

That  Hermione  should  be  outraged,  that  the  sacred - 
ness  of  her  despair  should  be  profaned,  and  the  holiness 
of  her  memories  utterly  polluted — Artois  felt  he  would 
give  his  life  willingly  to  prevent  that. 

When  the  donkey  came  he  set  off  at  once.  He  had 
drawn  his  broad-brimmed  hat  down  low  over  his  pale 
face,  and  he  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left,  as  he  was 
carried  down  the  long  and  narrow  street,  followed  by 
the  searching  glances  of  the  inhabitants,  who,  as  he 
had  surmised,  were  all  out,  engaged  in  eager  conversa- 
tion, and  anxiously  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  Pretore 
and  his  assistants,  and  the  announcement  of  the  result 
of  the  autopsy.  His  appearance  gave  them  a  fresh 
topic  to  discuss.  They  fell  upon  it  like  starveling  dogs 
on  a  piece  of  offal  found  in  the  gutter. 

Once  out  of  the  village,  Artois  felt  a  little  safer,  a  lit- 
tle easier;  but  he  longed  to  be  in  the  train  with  Hermione, 
carrying  her  far  from  the  chance  of  that  most  cruel  fate 
in  life — the  fate  of  disillusion,  of  the  loss  of  holy  belief 
in  the  truth  of  one  beloved. 

When  presently  he  reached  the  high-road  by  Isola 
Bella  he  encountered  the  fisherman,  Giuseppe,  who  had 
spent  the  night  at  the  Casa  del  Prete. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  the  place  where  the  poor 
signore  was  found,  signore?"  asked  the  man. 

"Si,"  said  Artois.  "I  was  his  friend.  I  wish  to  see 
the  Pretore,  to  hear  how  it  happened.  Can  I?  Are 
they  there,  he  and  the  others  ?" 

"They  are  in  the  Casa  delle  Sirene,  signore.  They 
are  waiting  to  see  if  Salvatore  comes  back  this  morning 
from  Messina." 

"And  his  daughter?     Is  she  there?" 

"Si,  signore.  But  she  knows  nothing.  She  was  in 
464 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

the  village.     She  can  only  cry.     She  is  crying  for  the 
poor  signore." 

Again  that  statement.  It  was  becoming  a  refrain  in 
the  ears  of  Artois. 

"  Gaspare  is  angry  with  her,"  added  the  fisherman. 
"  I  believe  he  would  like  to  kill  her." 

"It  makes  him  sad  to  see  her  crying,  perhaps,"  said 
Artois.  "Gaspare  loved  the  signore." 

He  saluted  the  fisherman  and  rode  on.  But  the  man 
followed  and  kept  by  his  side. 

"  I  will  take  you  across  in  a  boat,  signore,"  he  said. 

"Grazie." 

Artois  struck  the  donkey  and  made  it  trot  on  in  the 
dust. 

Giuseppe  rowed  him  across  the  inlet  and  to  the  far 
side  of  the  Sirens'  Isle,  from  which  the  little  path  wound 
upward  to  the  cottage.  Here,  among  the  rocks,  a  boat 
was  moored. 

"Ecco,  signore!"  cried  Giuseppe.  "Salvatore  has 
come  back  from  Messina!  Here  is  his  boat!" 

Artois  felt  a  pang  of  anxiety,  of  regret.  He  wished 
he  had  been  there  before  the  fisherman  had  returned. 
As  he  got  out  of  the  boat  he  said: 

"Did  Salvatore  know  the  signore  well?" 

"Si,  signore.  The  poor  signore  used  to  go  out  fish- 
ing with  Salvatore.  They  say  in  the  village  that  he 
gave  Salvatore  much  money." 

"  The  signore  was  generous  to  every  one." 

"  Si,  signore.  But  he  did  not  give  donkeys  to  every 
one." 

"  Donkeys?     What  do  you  mean,  Giuseppe ?" 

"  He  gave  Salvatore  a  donkey,  a  fine  donkey.  He 
bought  it  at  the  fair  of  San  Felice." 

Artois  said  no  more.     Slowly,  for  he  was  still  very 
weak,  and  the  heat  was  becoming  fierce  as  the  morning 
wore  on,  he  walked  up  the  steep  path  and  came  to  the 
plateau  before  the  Casa  delle  Sirene. 
465 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    BLOOD 

A  group  of  people  stood  there:  the  Pretore,  the  Can- 
celliere,  the  Maresciallo,  Gaspare,  and  Salvatore.  They 
seemed  to  be  in  strong  conversation,  but  directly  Artois 
appeared  there  was  a  silence,  and  they  all  turned  and 
stared  at  him  as  if  in  wonder.  Then  Gaspare  came  for- 
ward and  took  off  his  hat. 

The  boy  looked  haggard  with  grief,  and  angry  and 
obstinate,  desperately  obstinate. 

"Signore,"  he  said.  "You  know  my  padrone!  Tell 
them — " 

But  the  Pretore  interrupted  him  with  an  air  of  im- 
portance. 

"  It  is  my  duty  to  make  an  inquiry,"  he  said.  "  Who 
is  this  signore?" 

Artois  explained  that  he  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
the  signora  and  had  known  her  husband  before  his  mar- 
riage. 

"I  have  come  to  hear  if  you  are  satisfied,  as  no  doubt 
you  are,  Signer  Pretore,"  he  said,  "that  this  terrible 
death  was  caused  by  an  accident.  The  poor  signora 
naturally  wishes  that  this  necessary  business  should  be 
finished  as  soon  as  possible.  It  is  unavoidable,  I  know, 
but  it  can  only  add  to  her  unhappiness.  I  am  sure, 
signore,  that  you  will  do  your  best  to  conclude  the  in- 
quiry without  delay.  Forgive  me  for  saying  this.  But 
I  know  Sicily,  and  know  that  I  can  always  rely  on  the 
chivalry  of  Sicilian  gentlemen  where  an  unhappy  lady 
is  concerned." 

He  spoke  intentionally  with  a  certain  pomp,  and  held 
his  hat  in  his  hand  while  he  was  speaking. 

The  Pretore  looked  pleased  and  flattered. 

"Certainly,  Signer  Barone,"  he  said.  "Certainly. 
We  all  grieve  for  the  poor  signora." 

"You  will  allow  me  to  stay  ?"  said  Artois. 

"I  see  no  objection,"  said  the  Pretore. 

He  glanced  at  the  Cancelliere,  a  small,  pale  man,  with 
restless  eyes  and  a  pointed  chin  that  looked  like  a  weapon. 
466 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"Niente,  niente!"  said  the  Cancelliere,  obsequiously. 

He  was  reading  Artois  with  intense  sharpness.  The 
Maresciallo,  a  broad,  heavily  built  man,  with  an  enor- 
mous mustache,  uttered  a  deep  "  Buon  giorno,  Signer 
Barone,"  and  stood  calmly  staring.  He  looked  like  a 
magnificent  bull,  with  his  short,  strong  brown  neck, 
and  low-growing  hair  that  seemed  to  have  been  freshly 
crimped.  Gaspare  stood  close  to  Artois,  as  if  he  felt 
that  they  were  allies  and  must  keep  together.  Salva- 
tore  was  a  few  paces  off. 

Artois  glanced  at  him  now  with  a  carefully  concealed 
curiosity.  Instantly  the  fisherman  said: 

' '  Po vero  signorino !  Po vero  signorino !  Mamma  mia ! 
and  only  two  days  ago  we  were  all  at  the  fair  together! 
And  he  was  so  generous,  Signor  Barone."  He  moved 
a  little  nearer,  but  Artois  saw  him  glance  swiftly  at 
Gaspare,  like  a  man  fearful  of  violence  and  ready  to 
repel  it.  "He  paid  for  everything.  We  could  all  keep 
our  soldi  in  our  pockets.  And  he  gave  Maddalena  a 
beautiful  blue  dress,  and  he  gave  me  a  donkey.  Dio 
mio !  We  have  lost  a  benefactor.  If  the  poor  signo- 
rino had  lived  he  would  have  given  me  a  new  boat. 
He  had  promised  me  a  boat.  For  he  would  come 
fishing  with  me  nearly  every  day.  He  was  like  a  com- 
pare— 

Salvatore  stopped  abruptly.  His  eyes  were  again  on 
Gaspare. 

"And  you  say,"  began  the  Pretore,  with  a  certain 
heavy  pomposity,  "that  you  did  not  see  the  signore  at 
all  yesterday  ?" 

"No,  signore.  I  suppose  he  came  down  after  I  had 
started  for  Messina." 

"What  did  you  go  to  Messina  for?" 

"Signore,  I  went  to  see  my  nephew,  Guido,  who  is  in 
the  hospital.  He  has — 

"Non  fa  niente!  non  fa  niente!"  interrupted  the  Can- 
celliere. 

467 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  Non  fa  niente!  What  time  did  you  start  ?"  said  the 
Pretore. 

The  Maresciallo  cleared  his  throat  with  great  elabora- 
tion, and  spat  with  power  twice. 

"Signer  Pretore,  I  do  not  know.  I  did  not  look  at 
the  clock.  But  it  was  before  sunset — it  was  well  before 
sunset." 

"And  the  signore  only  came  down  from  the  Casa  del 
Prete  very  late,"  interposed  Artois,  quietly.  "I  was 
there  and  kept  him.  It  was  quite  evening  before  he 
started." 

An  expression  of  surprise  went  over  Salvatore's  face 
and  vanished.  He  had  realized  that  for  some  reason 
this  stranger  was  his  ally. 

"Had  you  any  reason  to  suppose  the  signore  was 
coming  to  fish  with  you  yesterday?"  asked  the  Pretore 
of  Salvatore. 

"No,  signore.  I  thought  as  the  signora  was  back  the 
poor  signore  would  stay  with  her  at  the  house." 

"Naturally,  naturally!"  said  the  Cancelliere. 

"Naturally!  It  seems  the  signore  had  several  times 
passed  across  the  rocks,  from  which  he  appears  to  have 
fallen,  without  any  difficulty,"  remarked  the  Pretore. 

"Si,  signore,"  said  Gaspare. 

He  looked  at  Salvatore,  seemed  to  make  a  great  effort, 
then  added: 

"But  never  when  it  was  dark,  signore.  And  I  was 
always  with  him.  He  used  to  take  my  hand." 

His  chest  began  to  heave. 

"  Corragio,  Gaspare!"  said  Artois  to  him,  in  a  low  voice. 

His  strong  intuition  enabled  him  to  understand 
something  of  the  conflict  that  was  raging  in  the  boy. 
He  had  seen  his  glances  at  Salvatore,  and  felt  that  he 
was  longing  to  fly  at  the  fisherman,  that  he  only  re- 
strained himself  with  agony  from  some  ferocious  vio- 
lence. 

The  Pretore  remained  silent  for  a  moment.  It  was 
468 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

evident  that  he  was  at  a  loss.  He  wished  to  appear 
acute,  but  the  inquiry  yielded  nothing  for  the  exercise 
of  his  talents. 

At  last  he  said : 

"  Did  any  one  see  you  going  to  Messina  ?  Is  there  any 
corroboration  of  your  statement  that  you  started  before 
the  signore  came  down  here?" 

"Do  you  think  I  am  not  speaking  the  truth,  Signer 
Pretore?"  said  Salvatore,  proudly.  "Why  should  Hie? 
The  poor  signore  was  my  benefactor.  If  I  had  known 
he  was  coming  I  should  have  been  here  to  receive  him. 
Why,  he  has  eaten  in  my  house!  He  has  slept  in  my 
house.  I  tell  you  we  were  as  brothers." 

"Si,  si,"  said  the  Cancelliere. 

Gaspare  set  his  teeth,  walked  away  to  the  edge  of  the 
plateau,  and  stood  looking  out  to  sea. 

"Then  no  one  saw  you?"  persisted  the  Pretore. 

"Non  lo  so,"  said  Salvatore.  "I  did  not  think  of 
such  things.  I  wanted  to  go  to  Messina,  so  I  sent  Mad- 
dalena  to  pass  the  night  in  the  village,  and  I  took  the 
boat.  What  else  should  I  do?" 

"Va  bene!     Va  bene!"  said  the  Cancelliere. 

The  Maresciallo  cleared  his  throat  again.  That,  and 
the  ceremony  which  invariably  followed,  were  his  only 
contributions  to  this  official  proceeding. 

The  Pretore,  receiving  no  assistance  from  his  col- 
leagues, seemed  doubtful  what  more  to  do.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  Artois  that  he  was  faintly  suspicious,  that  he  was 
not  thoroughly  satisfied  about  the  cause  of  this  death. 

"Your  daughter  seems  very  upset  about  all  this," 
he  said  to  Salvatore. 

"Mamma  mia!  And  how  should  she  not?  Why, 
Signor  Pretore,  we  loved  the  poor  signore.  We  would 
have  thrown  ourselves  into  the  sea  for  him.  When  we 
saw  him  coming  down  from  the  mountain  to  us  it  was 
as  if  we  saw  God  coming  down  from  heaven." 

"Certo!     Certo!"  said  the  Cancelliere. 
469 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  I  think  every  one  who  knew  the  signore  at  all  grew 
to  be  very  fond  of  him,"  said  Artois,  quietly.  "  He  was 
greatly  beloved  here  by  every  one." 

His  manner  to  the  Pretore  was  very  civil,  even  re- 
spectful. Evidently  it  had  its  effect  upon  that  person- 
age. Every  one  here  seemed  to  be  assured  that  this 
death  was  merely  an  accident,  could  only  have  been  an 
accident.  He  did  not  know  what  more  to  do. 

"Va  bene!"  he  said  at  last,  with  some  reluctance. 
"  We  shall  see  what  the  doctors  say  when  the  autopsy 
is  concluded.  Let  us  hope  that  nothing  will  be  dis- 
covered. I  do  not  wish  to  distress  the  poor  signora. 
At  the  same  time  I  must  do  my  duty.  That  is  evident." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  have  done  it  with  admirable 
thoroughness,"  said  Artois. 

"Grazie,  Signor  Barone,  grazie!" 

"Grazie,  grazie,  Signor  Barone!"  added  the  Can- 
celliere. 

"Grazie,  Signor  Barone!"  said  the  deep  voice  of  the 
Maresciallo. 

The  authorities  now  slowly  prepared  to  take  their  de- 
parture. 

"You  are  coming  with  us,  Signor  Barone?"  said  the 
Pretore. 

Artois  was  about  to  say  yes,  when  he  saw  pass  across 
the  aperture  of  the  doorway  of  the  cottage  the  figure  of 
a  girl  with  bent  head.  It  disappeared  immediately. 

"That  must  be  Maddalena!"  he  thought. 

"Scusi,  signore,"  he  said,  "but  I  have  been  seriously 
ill.  The  ride  down  here  has  tired  me,  and  I  should  be 
glad  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  if — "  He  looked 
at  Salvatore. 

"I  will  fetch  a  chair  for  the  signore!"  said  the  fisher- 
man, quickly. 

He  did  not  know  what  this  stranger  wanted,  but  he 
felt  instinctively  that  it  was  nothing  that  would  be 
harmful  to  him. 

470 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

The  Pretore  and  his  companions,  after  polite  inquiries 
as  to  the  illness  of  Artois,  took  their  leave  with  many 
salutations.  Only  Gaspare  remained  on  the  edge  of  the 
plateau  staring  at  the  sea.  As  Salvatore  went  to  fetch 
the  chair  Artois  went  over  to  the  boy. 

"Gaspare!"  he  said. 

"Si!"  said  the  boy. 

"I  want  you  to  go  up  with  the  Pretore.  Go  to  the 
signora.  Tell  her  the  inquiry  is  finished.  It  will  re- 
lieve her  to  know." 

"You  will  come  with  me,  signore?" 

"No." 

The  boy  turned  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"Why  do  you  stay?" 

For  a  moment  Artois  did  not  speak.  He  was  con- 
sidering rapidly  what  to  say,  how  to  treat  Gaspare. 
He  was  now  sure  that  there  had  been  a  tragedy,  with 
which  the  people  of  the  sirens'  house  were,  somehow, 
connected.  He  was  sure  that  Gaspare  either  knew  or 
suspected  what  had  happened,  yet  meant  to  conceal  his 
knowledge  despite  his  obvious  hatred  for  the  fisherman. 
Was  the  boy's  reason  for  this  strange  caution,  this 
strange  secretiveness,  akin  to  his  —  Artois's  —  desire? 
Was  the  boy  trying  to  protect  his  padrona  or  the  mem- 
ory of  his  padrone?  Artois  wondered.  Then  he  said: 

"  Gaspare,  I  shall  only  stay  a  few  minutes.  We  must 
have  no  gossip  that  can  get  to  the  padrona's  ears.  We 
understand  each  other,  I  think,  you  and  I.  We  want 
the  same  thing.  Men  can  keep  silence,  but  girls  talk. 
I  wish  to  see  Maddalena  for  a  minute." 

"Ma—" 

Gaspare  stared  at  him  almost  fiercely.  But  some- 
thing in  the  face  of  Artois  inspired  him  with  confidence. 
Suddenly  his  reserve  disappeared.  He  put  his  hand  on 
Artois's  arm. 

"Tell  Maddalena  to  be  silent  and  not  to  go  on  crying, 
signore,"  he  said,  violently.  "Tell  her  that  if  she  does 
47i 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

not  stop  crying  I  will  come  down  here  in  the  night  and 
kill  her." 

"Go,  Gaspare!     The  Pretore  is  wondering— go!" 

Gaspare  went  down  over  the  edge  of  the  land  and  dis- 
appeared towards  the  sea. 

"Ecco,  signore!" 

Salvatore  reappeared  from  the  cottage  carrying  a 
chair  which  he  set  down  under  an  olive-tree,  the  same 
tree  by  which  Maddalena  had  stood  when  Maurice  first 
saw  her  in  the  dawn. 

"Grazie." 

Artois  sat  down.  He  was  very  tired,  but  he  scarcely 
knew  it.  The  fisherman  stood  by  him,  looking  at  him 
with  a  sort  of  shifty  expectation,  and  Artois,  as  he 
noticed  the  hard  Arab  type  of  the  man's  face,  the  glitter 
of  the  small,  cunning  eyes,  the  nervous  alertness  of  the 
thin,  sensitive  hands,  understood  a  great  deal  about 
Salvatore.  He  knew  Arabs  well.  He  had  slept  under 
their  tents,  had  seen  them  in  joy  and  in  anger,  had 
witnessed  scenes  displaying  fully  their  innate  careless- 
ness of  human  life.  This  fisherman  was  almost  as  much 
Arab  as  Sicilian.  The  blend  scarcely  made  for  gentle- 
ness. If  such  a  man  were  wronged,  he  would  be  quick 
and  subtle  in  revenge.  Nothing  would  stay  him.  But 
had  Maurice  wronged  him  ?  Artois  meant  to  assume 
knowledge  and  to  act  upon  his  assumption.  His  in- 
stinct advised  him  that  in  doing  so  he  would  be  doing 
the  best  thing  possible  for  the  protection  of  Hermione. 

"Can  you  make  much  money  here?"  he  said,  sharply 
yet  carelessly. 

The  fisherman  moved  as  if  startled. 

"Signore!" 

"They  tell  me  Sicily's  a  poor  land  for  the  poor.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

Salvatore  recovered  himself. 

"Si,  signore,  si,  signore,  one  earns  nothing.  It  is  a 
hard  life,  Per  Dio!" 

472 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

He  stopped  and  stared  hard  at  the  stranger  with  his 
hands  on  his  hips.  His  eyes,  his  whole  expression  and 
attitude  said,  "What  are  you  up  to?" 

"America  is  the  country  for  a  sharp-witted  man  to 
make  his  fortune  in,"  said  Artois,  returning  his  gaze. 

"Si,  signore.  Many  go  from  here.  I  know  many 
who  are  working  in  America.  But  one  must  have 
money  to  pay  the  ticket." 

"Yes.     This  terreno  belongs  to  you?" 

"Only  the  bit  where  the  house  stands,  signore.  And 
it  is  all  rocks.  It  is  no  use  to  any  one.  And  in  winter 
the  winds  come  over  it.  Why,  it  would  take  years  of 
work  to  turn  it  into  anything.  And  I  am  not  a  con- 
tadino.  Once  I  had  a  wine-shop,  but  I  am  a  man  of 
the  sea." 

"  But  you  are  a  man  with  sharp  wits.  I  should  think 
you  would  do  well  in  America.  Others  do,  and  why  not 
you?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  hard  for  a  full  minute. 
Then  Salvatore  said,  slowly: 

"Signore,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  It  is  the  truth. 
I  would  swear  it  with  sea -water  on  my  lips.  If  I  had 
the  money  I  would  go  to  America.  I  would  take  the 
first  ship." 

"And  your  daughter,  Maddalena?  You  couldn't 
leave  her  behind  you?" 

"Signore,  if  I  were  ever  to  go  to  America  you  may 
be  sure  I  should  take  Maddalena  with  me." 

"I  think  you  would,"  Artois  said,  still  looking  at  the 
man  full  in  the  eyes.  "  I  think  it  would  be  wiser  to  take 
Maddalena  with  you." 

Salvatore  looked  away. 

"If  I  had  the  money,  signore,  I  would  buy  the  tickets 
to-morrow.  Here  I  can  make  nothing,  and  it  is  a  hard 
life,  always  on  the  sea.  And  in  America  you  get  good 
pay.  A  man  can  earn  eight  lire  a  day  there,  they  tell 
me." 

473 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  have  not  seen  your  daughter  yet,"  Artois  said, 
abruptly. 

"No,  signore,  she  is  not  well  to-day.  And  the  Signor 
Pretore  frightened  her.  She  will  stay  in  the  house  to- 
day." 

"But  I  should  like  to  see  her  for  a  moment.' 

"Signore,  I  am  very  sorry,  but — " 

Artois  turned  round  in  the  chair  and  looked  towards 
the  house.  The  door,  which  had  been  open,  was  now 
shut. 

"Maddalena  is  praying,  signore.  She  is  praying  to 
the  Madonna  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  signore." 

For  the  first  time  Artois  noticed  in  the  hard,  bird- 
like  face  of  the  fisherman  a  sign  of  emotion,  almost  of 
softness. 

"We  must  not  disturb  her,  signore." 

Artois  got  up  and  went  a  few  steps  nearer  to  the 
cottage. 

"Can  one  see  the  place  where  the  signore's  body  was 
found?"  he  asked. 

"Si,  signore,  from  the  other  side,  among  the  trees." 

"I  will  come  back  in  a  moment,"  said  Artois. 

He  walked  away  from  the  fisherman  and  entered  the 
wood,  circling  the  cottage.  The  fisherman  did  not 
come  with  him.  Artois's  instinct  had  told  him  that 
the  man  would  not  care  to  come  on  such  an  errand.  As 
Artois  passed  at  the  back  of  the  cottage  he  noticed  an 
open  window,  and  paused  near  it  in  the  long  grass. 
From  within  there  came  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice, 
murmuring.  It  was  frequently  interrupted  by  sobs. 
After  a  moment  Artois  went  close  to  the  window,  and 
said,  but  without  showing  himself: 

"Maddalena!" 

The  murmuring  voice  stopped. 

"Maddalena!" 

There  was  silence. 

"Maddalena!"  Artois  said.     "Are  you  listening?" 
474 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

He  heard  a  faint  movement  as  if  the  woman  within 
came  nearer  to  the  casement. 

"If  you  loved  the  dead  signore,  if  you  care  for  his 
memory,  do  not  talk  of  your  grief  for  him  to  others. 
Pray  for  him,  and  be  silent  for  him.  If  you  are  silent 
the  Holy  Mother  will  hear  your  prayers." 

As  he  said  the  last  words  Artois  made  his  deep  voice 
sound  mysterious,  mystical. 

Then  he  went  away  softly  among  the  thickly  grow- 
ing trees. 

When  he  saw  Salvatore  again,  still  standing  upon  the 
plateau,  he  beckoned  to  him  without  coming  into  the 
open. 

"Bring  the  boat  round  to  the  inlet,"  he  said.  "I 
will  cross  from  there." 

"Si,  signore." 

"And  as  we  cross  we  can  speak  a  little  more  about 
America." 

The  fisherman  stared  at  him,  with  a  faint  smile  that 
showed  a  gleam  of  sharp,  white  teeth. 

"Si,  signore — a  little  more  about  America." 


XXV 

A  NIGHT  and  a  day  had  passed,  and  still  Artois  had 
not  seen  Hermione.  The  autopsy  had  been  finished, 
and  had  revealed  nothing  to  change  the  theory  of  Dr. 
Marini  as  to  the  determining  cause  of  death.  The  Eng- 
lish stranger  had  been  crossing  the  dangerous  wall  of 
rock,  probably  in  darkness,  had  fallen,  been  stunned 
upon  the  rocks  in  the  sea  beneath,  and  drowned  before 
he  recovered  consciousness. 

Gaspare  said  nothing.  Salvatore  held  his  peace  and 
began  his  preparations  for  America.  And  Maddalena, 
if  she  wept,  wept  now  in  secret;  if  she  prayed,  prayed 
in  the  lonely  house  of  the  sirens,  near  the  window  which 
had  so  often  given  a  star  to  the  eyes  that  looked  down 
from  the  terrace  of  the  Casa  del  Prete. 

There  was  gossip  in  Marechiaro,  and  the  Pretore  still 
preserved  his  air  of  faint  suspicion.  But  that  would 
probably  soon  vanish  under  the  influence  of  the  Can- 
celliere,  with  whom  Artois  had  had  some  private  con- 
versation. The  burial  had  been  allowed,  and  very 
early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  following  that  of 
Hermione's  arrival  at  the  hotel  it  took  place  from  the 
hospital. 

Few  people  knew  the  hour,  and  most  were  still  asleep 
when  the  coffin  was  carried  down  the  street,  followed 
only  by  Hermione,  and  by  Gaspare  in  a  black,  ready- 
made  suit  that  had  been  bought  in  the  village  of  Cattaro. 
Hermione  would  not  allow  any  one  else  to  follow  her 
dead,  and  as  Maurice  had  been  a  Protestant  there  was  no 
service.  This  shocked  Gaspare,  and  added  to  his  grief, 
476 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

till  Hermione  explained  that  her  husband  had  been  of  a 
different  religion  from  that  of  Sicily,  a  religion  with  dif- 
ferent rites. 

"But  we  can  pray  for  him,  Gaspare,"  she  said.  "He 
loved  us,  and  perhaps  he  will  know  what  we  are 
doing." 

The  thought  seemed  to  soothe  the  boy.  He  kneeled 
down  by  his  padrona  under  the  wall  of  the  Campo  Santo 
by  which  Protestants  were  buried,  and  whispered  a 
petition  for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  his  padrone.  Into 
the  gap  of  earth,  where  now  the  coffin  lay,  he  had  thrown 
roses  from  his  father's  little  terreno  near  the  village. 
His  tears  fell  fast,  and  his  prayer  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  broken  murmur  of  "Povero  signorino — povero  signo- 
rino  —  Dio  ci  mandi  buon  riposo  in  Paradiso."  Her- 
mione could  not  pray  although  she  was  in  the  attitude 
of  supplication;  but  when  she  heard  the  words  of  Gas- 
pare she  murmured  them  too.  "Buon  riposo!"  The 
sweet  Sicilian  good  -  night  —  she  said  it  now  in  the 
stillness  of  the  lonely  dawn.  And  her  tears  fell  fast 
with  those  of  the  boy  who  had  loved  and  served  his 
master. 

When  the  funeral  was  over  she  walked  up  the  moun- 
tain with  Gaspare  to  the  Casa  del  Prete,  and  from  there, 
on  the  following  day,  she  sent  a  message  to  Artois,  ask- 
ing him  if  he  would  come  to  see  her. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  not  seeing  you  before,"  she 
wrote.  "  We  understand  each  other  and  do  not  need  explana- 
tions. I  wanted  to  see  nobody.  Come  at  any  hour  when  you 
feel  that  you  would  like  to.  HERMIONE." 

Artois  rode  up  in  the  cool  of  the  day,  towards 
evening. 

He  was  met  upon  the  terrace  by  Gaspare. 

"The  signora  is  on  the  mountain,  signore,"  he  said. 
"If  you  go  up  you  will  find  her,  the  povero  signora. 
She  is  all  alone  upon  the  mountain." 
477 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"  I  will  go,  Gaspare.  I  have  told  Maddalena.  I  think 
she  will  be  silent." 

The  boy  dropped  his  eyes.  His  unreserve  of  the 
island  had  not  endured.  It  had  been  a  momentary 
impulse,  and  now  the  impulse  had  died  away. 

"Va  bene,  signore,"  he  muttered. 

He  had  evidently  nothing  more  to  say,  yet  Artois  did 
not  leave  him  immediately. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  "the  signora  will  not  stay  here 
through  the  great  heat,  will  she?" 

"Non  lo  so,  signore." 

"  She  ought  to  go  away.  It  will  be  better  if  she  goes 
away." 

"Si,  signore.  But  perhaps  she  will  not  like  to  leave 
the  povero  signorino." 

Tears  came  into  the  boy's  eyes.  He  turned  away 
and  went  to  the  wall,  and  looked  over  into  the  ravine, 
and  thought  of  many  things:  of  readings  under  the  oak- 
trees,  of  the  tarantella,  of  how  he  and  the  padrone  had 
come  up  from  the  fishing  singing  in  the  sunshine.  His 
heart  was  full,  and  he  felt  dazed.  He  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  being  always  with  his  padrone  that  he  did  not 
know  how  he  was  to  go  on  without  him.  He  did  not 
remember  his  former  life,  before  the  padrone  came. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  begun  for  him  on  that 
morning  when  the  train  with  the  padrone  and  the  pa- 
drona  in  it  ran  into  the  station  of  Cattaro.  And  now 
everything  seemed  to  have  finished. 

Artois  did  not  say  any  more  to  him,  but  walked  slow- 
ly up  the  mountain  leaning  on  his  stick.  Close  to  the 
top,  by  a  heap  of  stones  that  was  something  like  a  cairn, 
he  saw,  presently,  a  woman  sitting.  As  he  came  nearer 
she  turned  her  head  and  saw  him.  She  did  not  move. 
The  soft  rays  of  the  evening  sun  fell  on  her,  and  showed 
him  that  her  square  and  rugged  face  was  pale  and 
grave  and,  he  thought,  empty-looking,  as  if  something 
had  deprived  it  of  its  former  possession,  the  ardent 
478 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

vitality,  the  generous  enthusiasm,  the  look  of  swiftness 
he  had  loved. 

When  he  came  up  to  her  he  could  only  say: 

"Hermione,  my  friend — 

The  loneliness  of  this  mountain  summit  was  a  fit 
setting  for  her  loneliness,  and  these  two  solitudes,  of 
nature  and  of  this  woman's  soul,  took  hold  of  Artois 
and  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  infinitely  small,  as  if 
he  could  not  matter  to  either.  He  loved  nature,  and 
he  loved  this  woman.  And  of  what  use  were  he  and 
his  love  to  them  ? 

She  stretched  up  her  hand  to  him,  and  he  bent  down 
and  took  it  and  held  it. 

"You  said  some  day  I  should  leave  my  Garden  of 
Paradise,  Emile." 

"  Don't  hurt  me  with  my  own  words,"  he  said. 

"Sit  by  me." 

He  sat  down  on  the  warm  ground  close  to  the  heap 
of  stones. 

"You  said  I  should  leave  the  garden,  but  I  don't 
think  you  meant  like  this.  Did  you?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

"I  think  you  thought  we  should  be  unhappy  to- 
gether. Well,  we  were  never  that.  We  were  always 
very  happy.  I  like  to  think  of  that.  I  come  up  here 
to  think  of  that;  of  our  happiness,  and  that  we  were 
always  kind  and  tender  to  each  other.  Emile,  if  we 
hadn't  been,  if  we  had  ever  had  even  one  quarrel,  even 
once  said  cruel  things  to  each  other,  I  don't  think 
I  could  bear  it  now.  But  we  never  did.  God  did 
watch  us  then,  I  think.  God  was  with  me  so  long  as 
Maurice  was  with  me.  But  I  feel  as  if  God  had  gone 
away  from  me  with  Maurice,  as  if  they  had  gone  to- 
gether. Do  you  think  any  other  woman  has  ever  felt 
like  that?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  worthy  to  know  how  some  wom- 
en feel,"  he  said,  almost  falteringly. 
479 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

"I  thought  perhaps  God  would  have  stayed  with  me 
to  help  me,  but  I  feel  as  if  He  hadn't.  I  feel  as  if  He 
had  only  been  able  to  love  me  so  long  as  Maurice  was 
with  me." 

"That  feeling  will  pass  away." 

"Perhaps  when  my  child  comes,"  she  said,  very 
simply. 

Artois  had  not  known  about  the  coming  of  the  child, 
but  Hermione  did  not  remember  that  now. 

"Your  child!"  he  said. 

"I  am  glad  I  came  back  in  time  to  tell  him  about  the 
child,"  she  said.  "I  think  at  first  he  was  almost  fright- 
ened. He  was  such  a  boy,  you  see.  He  was  the  very 
spirit  of  youth,  wasn't  he  ?  And  perhaps  that — but  at 
the  end  he  seemed  happy.  He  kissed  me  as  if  he  loved 
not  only  me.  Do  you  understand,  Emile?  He  seemed 
to  kiss  me  the  last  time — for  us  both.  Some  day  I  shall 
tell  my  baby  that." 

She  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  She  looked  out  over 
the  great  view,  now  falling  into  a  strange  repose.  This 
was  the  land  he  had  loved,  the  land  he  had  belonged 
to. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  the  'Pastorale'  now,"  she  said, 
presently.  "  But  Sebastiano — : '  A  new  thought  seemed 
to  strike  her.  "I  wonder  how  some  women  can  bear 
their  sorrows,"  she  said.  "Don't  you,  Emile?" 

"What  sorrows  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Such  a  sorrow  as  poor  Lucrezia  has  to  bear.  Mau- 
rice always  loved  me.  Lucrezia  knows  that  Sebastiano 
loves  some  one  else.  I  ought  to  be  trying  to  comfort 
Lucrezia.  I  did  try.  I  did  go  to  pray  with  her.  But 
that  was  before.  I  can't  pray  now,  because  I  can't  feel 
sure  of  almost  anything.  I  sometimes  think  that  this 
happened  without  God's  meaning  it  to  happen." 

"God!"  Artois  said,  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse. 
"And  the  gods,  the  old  pagan  gods?" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  understanding.  "We  called  him 
480 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

Mercury.  Yes,  it  is  as  if  he  had  gone  to  them,  as  if 
they  had  recalled  their  messenger.  In  the  spring,  be- 
fore I  went  to  Africa,  I  often  used  to  think  of  legends, 
and  put  him — my  Sicilian — 

She  did  not  go  on.  Yet  her  voice  had  not  faltered. 
There  was  no  contortion  of  sorrow  in  her  face.  There 
was  a  sort  of  soft  calmness  about  her  almost  akin  to 
the  calmness  of  the  evening.  It  was  the  more  remark- 
able in  her  because  she  was  not  usually  a  tranquil  wom- 
an. Artois  had  never  known  her  before  in  deep  grief. 
But  he  had  known  her  in  joy,  and  then  she  had  been 
rather  enthusiastic  than  serene.  Something  of  her 
eager  humanity  had  left  her  now.  She  made  upon 
him  a  strange  impression,  almost  as  of  some  one  he  had 
never  previously  had  any  intercourse  with.  And  yet 
she  was  being  wonderfully  natural  with  him,  as  natural 
as  if  she  were  alone. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  my  friend?"  he  said, 
after  a  long  silence. 

"Nothing.  I  have  no  wish  to  do  anything.  I  shall 
just  wait — for  our  child." 

"But  where  will  you  wait?  You  cannot  wait  here. 
The  heat  would  weaken  you.  In  your  condition  it 
would  be  dangerous." 

"He  spoke  of  going.  It  hurt  me  for  a  moment,  I 
remember.  I  had  a  wish  to  stay  here  forever  then.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  this  little  bit  of  earth  and  rock  was 
the  happiest  place  in  all  the  world.  Yes,  I  will  go, 
Emile,  but  I  shall  come  back.  I  shall  bring  our  child 
here." 

He  did  not  combat  this  intention  then,  for  he  was 
too  thankful  to  have  gained  her  assent  to  the  departure 
for  which  he  longed.  The  further  future  must  take 
care  of  itself. 

"I  will  take  you  to  Italy,  to  Switzerland,  wherever 
you  wish  to  go." 

"I  have  no  wish  for  any  other  place.  But  I  will  go 
481 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BLOOD 

somewhere  in  Italy.  Wherever  it  is  cool  and  silent  will 
do.  But  I  must  be  far  away  from  people;  and  when 
you  have  taken  me  there,  dear  Emile,  you  must  leave 
me  there." 

"Quite  alone?" 

"Gaspare  will  be  with  me.  I  shall  always  keep  Gas- 
pare. Maurice  and  he  were  like  two  brothers  in  their 
happiness.  I  know  they  loved  each  other,  and  I  know 
Gaspare  loves  me." 

Artois  only  said: 

"I  trust  the  boy." 

The  word  "trust"  seemed  to  wake  Hermione  into 
a  stronger  life. 

"Ah,  Emile,"  she  said,  "once  you  distrusted  the 
south.  I  remember  your  very  words.  You  said,  'I 
love  the  south,  but  I  distrust  what  I  love,  and  I  see 
the  south  in  him.'  I  want  to  tell  you,  I  want  you  to 
know,  how  perfect  he  was  always  to  me.  He  loved  joy, 
but  his  joy  was  always  innocent.  There  was  always 
something  of  the  child  in  him.  He  was  unconscious  of 
himself.  He  never  understood  his  own  beauty.  He  never 
realized  that  he  was  worthy  of  worship.  His  thought 
was  to  reverence  and  to  worship  others.  He  loved  life 
and  the  sun — oh,  how  he  loved  them!  I  don't  think 
any  one  can  ever  have  loved  life  and  the  sun  as  he  did, 
ever  will  love  them  as  he  did.  But  he  was  never  self- 
ish. He  was  just  quite  natural.  He  was  the  deathless 
boy.  Emile,  have  you  noticed  anything  about  me — 
since?" 

"What,  Hermione?" 

"How  much  older  I  look  now.  He  was  like  my 
youth,  and  my  youth  has  gone  with  him." 

"Will  it  not  revive — when — ?" 

"No,  never.     I  don't  wish  it  to.     Gaspare  gathered 

roses,  all  the  best  roses  from  his  father's  little  bit  of 

land,  to  throw  into  the  grave.     And  I  want  my  youth 

to  lie  there  with  my  Sicilian  under  Gaspare's  roses.     I 

482 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

feel  as  if  that  would  be  a  tender  companionship.  I 
gave  everything  to  him  when  he  was  alive,  and  I  don't 
want  to  keep  anything  back  now.  I  would  like  the  sun 
to  be  with  him  under  Gaspare's  roses.  And  yet  I  know 
he's  elsewhere.  I  can't  explain.  But  two  days  ago  at 
dawn  I  heard  a  child  playing  the  tarantella,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  my  Sicilian  had  been  taken  away 
by  the  blue,  by  the  blue  of  Sicily.  I  shall  often  come 
back  to  the  blue.  I  shall  often  sit  here  again.  For 
it  was  here  that  I  heard  the  beating  of  the  heart  of 
youth.  And  there's  no  other  music  like  that.  Is  there, 
Emile?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

Had  the  music  been  wild?  He  suspected  that  the 
harmony  she  worshipped  had  passed  on  into  the  hideous 
crash  of  discords.  And  whose  had  been  the  fault  ?  Who 
creates  human  nature  as  it  is?  In  what  workshop,  of 
what  brain,  are  forged  the  mad  impulses  of  the  wild 
heart  of  youth,  are  mixed  together  subtly  the  divine 
aspirations  which  leap  like  the  winged  Mercury  to  the 
heights,  and  the  powerful  appetites  which  lead  the  body 
into  the  dark  places  of  the  earth  ?  And  why  is  the  Giver 
of  the  divine  the  permitter  of  those  tremendous  pas- 
sions, which  are  not  without  their  glory,  but  which 
wreck  so  many  human  lives? 

Perhaps  a  reason  may  be  found  in  the  sacredness  of 
pity.  Evil  and  agony  are  the  manure  from  which 
spring  some  of  the  whitest  lilies  that  have  ever  bloomed 
beneath  that  enigmatic  blue  which  roofs  the  terror  and 
the  triumph  of  the  world.  And  while  human  beings 
know  how  to  pity,  human  beings  will  always  believe  in 
a  merciful  God. 

A  strange  thought  to  come  into  such  a  mind  as  Ar- 
tois's!  Yet  it  came  in  the  twilight,  and  with  it  a  sense 
of  tears  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before. 

With  the  twilight  had  come  a  little  wind  from  Etna. 
It  made  something  near  him  flutter,  something  white, 
483 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    BLOOD 

a  morsel  of  paper  among  the  stones  by  which  he  was 
sitting.  He  looked  down  and  saw  writing,  and  bent  to 
pick  the  paper  up. 

"  Emile  may  leave  at  once.  But  there  is  no  good  boat  till  the 
loth.  We  shall  take  that " 

Hermione's  writing! 

Artois  understood  at  once.  Maurice  had  had  Hermi- 
one's letter.  He  had  known  they  were  coming  from  Af- 
rica, and  he  had  gone  to  the  fair  despite  that  knowledge. 
He  had  gone  with  the  girl  who  wept  and  prayed  beside 
the  sea. 

His  hand  closed  over  the  paper. 

"What  is  it,  Emile?     What  have  you  picked  up?" 

"Only  a  little  bit  of  paper." 

He  spoke  quietly,  tore  it  into  tiny  fragments  and  let 
them  go  upon  the  wind. 

"When  will  you  come  with  me,  Hermione?  When 
shall  we  go  to  Italy?" 

"I  am  saying  'a  rivederci'  now" — she  dropped  her 
voice — "and  buon  riposo." 

The  white  fragments  blew  away  into  the  gathering 
night,  separated  from  one  another  by  the  careful  wind. 

Three  days  later  Hermione  and  Artois  left  Sicily,  and 
Gaspare,  leaning  out  of  the  window  of  the  train,  looked 
his  last  on  the  Isle  of  the  Sirens.  A  fisherman  on  the 
beach  by  the  inlet,  not  Salvatore,  recognized  the  boy 
and  waved  a  friendly  hand.  But  Gaspare  did  not  see 
him. 

There  they  had  fished!  There  they  had  bathed! 
There  they  had  drunk  the  good  red  wine  of  Amato  and 
called  for  brindisi!  There  they  had  lain  on  the  warm. 
sand  of  the  caves!  There  they  had  raced  together  to 
Madre  Carmela  and  her  frying-pan!  There  they  had 
shouted  "O  sole  mio!" 

484 


THE    CALL   OF   THE    BLOOD 

There — there  they  had  been  young  together! 

The  shining  sea  was  blotted  out  from  the  boy's  eyes 
by  tears. 

"Povero  signorino!"  he  whispered.  "Povero  signo- 
rino!" 

And  then,  as  his  "Paese"  vanished,  he  added  for  the 
last  time  the  words  which  he  had  whispered  in  the  dawn 
by  the  grave  of  his  padrone,  "Dio  ci  mandi  buon  riposo 
in  Paradiso." 


THE    END 


A     000  030  782     7 


